A Fellow Almost Damned in a Fair Wife
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "She allowed herself, for the first time, to really picture him whole. Until now it had been fragments and wreckage from a floundering desire which had surfaced on the shore of her consciousness when she least expected it, but now she allowed herself the pleasure of seeing him fully..." The story of how Morticia and Gomez came together. A chapter story.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** I have tried to write this story a number of times but I have never ever felt confident enough to publish. I would say The Addams Family is the hardest fandom I write in, and that often translates in the stories. It came after a prompt from a guest review, and I tried again, and I think it might have worked this time.

Thanks, as always, to my endlessly patient friend **Wild Mei Ling**. She's a willing ear, a great critic, and a fantastic editor! So this is for her.

This is a chapter story, and I'll try to update it as regularly as I can.

 **Disclaimer:** The Addams Family, and anything associated with it, don't belong to me. They belong to Paramount and Charles Addams and whoever else owns them. I make no money from these stories and this applies to all the chapters.

Thank you for reading and I hope you really, really enjoy it. Please leave a review if you can.

* * *

There was an abundance of dresses, scattered shoes, the lingering scent of perfume, the steamy heat of recent bathing, the tea gone cold on the breakfast tray, and in the middle of it all her flighty sister. Her sister was the most chaotic of all, whirring about in a melee of materials and scents. In fact to say it was chaotic was an understatement, and chaos did not sit well with her. Ophelia's flaxen hair, so pale it was almost colourless, flew behind her as she dashed towards the bed, simultaneously shedding the dress she had dismissed in front of the mirror a moment before.

"It looks beautiful, Ophelia," she said, her voice low and quiet, as she perched perfectly still on the chair in the corner.

"Perhaps you're blind Morticia," her sister said, wriggling the dress over her hips and stepping out of the pool at her feet.

"You are all aflutter," Morticia observed lightly, "It doesn't suit you. You weren't like this with the other boys."

Her sister stared pointedly at her in the mirror, then a wry smile appeared on her pale lips.

"I wasn't betrothed to all those other boys," she smirked.

"Oh, I see," Morticia answered, "You only acted as if you were betrothed to them?"

"Darling, what one does before one's marriage hardly counts," her sister answered, holding up a pale satin dress, which had the air of lingerie from a Berlin cabaret, against her body.

"Mother would not approve," Morticia advised lightly but seriously.

"But all the boys _do_ ," Ophelia smiled, pushing her hair back, "At any rate, Mr. Addams hardly has a pristine reputation."

Morticia paused in her examination of her nails, "So I gather."

Her sister continued to examine the potential dress as she spoke, "Morticia of so little words. What matter is it that he's a rake? It's hardly likely to be a marriage of encompassing passion…he'll have his dalliances," her sister paused, "And I'll be damned if I'm not to have mine. Arranged marriages are a curse, and I intend to make mine as bearable as possible."

Morticia nodded, silence her only response. It was sentimental and crass to insist marriage was something else, or at least should be, when it was evident that such notions were prime for rebuttal in her world. Her parents' marriage, and their parents before them, and every generation before that, had suffered the trials of an arranged betrothal, and come out none the worse for it, she supposed. None the better either, but none the worse.

She wasn't particularly romantic or naïve but the very prospect of her parents choosing the man to whom she would be bound forever was repugnant in the extreme. For a very great number of reasons but mainly because she wanted to be loved, to be worshiped.

In everything else she may have been complex but not, at least, in this.

"I think I'm settled," Ophelia said, turning for appraisal.

"That looks almost matrimonial," Morticia said dryly, eyes glancing over the white chiffon, "And definitely virginal."

Ophelia smiled, "Neither of which are particularly concordant with my person?"

A delicate eyebrow arched, Morticia laughed lowly, "Your words, not mine."

 **-0-**

The ancient family silver laid out, they sat in the parlour as if awaiting terrible news. Her parents looked grave, as well they should since they were trading their daughter as a commodity to the wealthy and well-connected Mr. Addams. Morticia was not a parent, but the concept of trading your daughter off for security, or a name, or a huge dowry, seemed brutal to her mind.

She was supposed to be excited, and she was trying very hard to seem it, but excitement wasn't an emotion she was particularly familiar with, let alone for a marriage which she was fully against. The only saving grace was Ophelia's can-do attitude in the face of a forced engagement, and in fact she seemed secretly pleased to have bagged such a miraculous connection without having to have lifted as much as a finger in effort. That was Ophelia's forte though; breezing into situations and making them suit her.

She moved slightly, folded her hands in her lap, and then leaned her shoulder against the wing of the chair.

"Tish," her father's smile was stiff, "Look animated, please."

"You're asking the desert for rain there," Ophelia murmured, "Isn't he?"

Morticia smiled wanly, almost exaggerating the languidness of her body to prove her sister right, "Mmmm."

"I hardly think Mr. Addams will want to see what Tishy is like anyway," Ophelia said breezily, "He's here for me, I don't need to remind you of that surely."

"No, you don't," Morticia whispered, earning a sly grin from her sister.

There was always this cattiness there, because Ophelia made it so. Morticia was not, by her nature, competitive, but Ophelia surely was. And though Morticia's words were jocular, Ophelia's were laced with truth.

"Perhaps…soon we shall find a sui-"

"Oh father, please," Morticia moaned, "Please, not this again."

"A girl's got to find a husband," her father said, his voice full of old frustration at this conversation.

"Maybe fifty years ago," she said quietly, "But now… Anyway, we all know that when it comes to it you will pick one for me and I will have no say in it."

"Now she just wants one to keep her in the life you've ensured she's accustomed to daddy," Ophelia finished, wrapping her arms around their father's neck soothingly.

He grinned stupidly, "You should be more like Ophelia, Morticia."

She nodded submissively, though Ophelia grinned at the glint in her eye, "I know papa."

"They're here," her mother croaked from her previous stony silence, "They're here."

Morticia turned her long neck to see a pricey car slide into their drive, the colour of racing green.

"I hope he's handsome," Ophelia whispered as their parents went from the room.

"What if you don't love him?"

She felt stupid saying it but she said it anyway.

"I won't," Ophelia answered, "But he will love me. He has to Morticia, you know that. Who can possibly resist me."

She considered her sister's words and the truth in them. She had men wrapped around her finger, from when they were little to when they were at boarding school and she'd had so many suitors it was both embarrassing and admirable. Morticia was different, quieter, more wary about to whom she gave herself. It wasn't prudishness or shyness, it was the fear of selling herself short that had meant all of her flings had been brief, unsatisfying and boring.

And no man had quite managed to cut through those impeachable standards though she'd let them have a fair go at doing so.

There were voices in the hall and her sister stood at the fire place, her pale skin lit with a glowing confidence that Morticia found objectionable.

"Prepared?"

Ophelia smiled, "The only person who need be prepared is the man in the hall."

Morticia smiled, "I love your confidence."

"No you don't," Ophelia laughed, "But you do love me."

Morticia nodded and, despite their difference, it wasn't a lie, "Of course."

The door behind her fell open and she did not move, staying exactly where she was with her back to the door. It wasn't intentionally ill-mannered, though it undoubtedly was, but she simply didn't want to move.

"This is Ophelia," her father said to the stranger.

A whiff of cologne, earthy and dark and mixed with bitter cigars, breezed by her as the tall man strode past. When she lifted her head it was to see a proud back, a fedora and a coat that was the exquisite, greyish-green of decay, patterned Paisley and lined in Ermin.

He certainly cut a figure worthy of his reputation.

The back bent, kissed her sister's pale hand and turned as her father said:

"And this is our younger daughter Morticia."

She was a pessimist, a denier of cliché, but her heart ceased beating in her breast in the moment he turned.

Black, half-lidded, shining jet eyes glanced over her, appraising. Time stopped, there was nothing between them which constituted space and time, then it snapped as her father spoke.

"Please, Mr. Addams, take a seat."

The man did as he was asked but he seemed to misstep, to falter for a fraction of a second, before smiling slickly and removing his fedora.

She felt suddenly untethered and fear rose up across her ribs and breastbone, climbing up to constrict her gullet. Her palms pricked with the desire to touch something, anything, that would ground her again. She gripped the soft leather of the arm chair and dug her nails in, feeling they might splinter.

Around her conversation ebbed and flowed with the awkwardness of all new acquaintances and yet she felt as if she were floating somewhere above it, cold and isolated from it all. Blue smoke curled up towards the ceiling from his cigar, pungent and delicious all at the same time. His laugh was loud and irreverent, and when he eventually turned his eyes on her again it was with a glistening, bright smile that was an obscenity in its handsomeness.

Suddenly faint, because she knew where this would go if she did not excuse herself, she stood and with few words, went from the room. She felt their eyes on her but she didn't look back, slithering from them silently.

His laugh followed her though, loud and jubilant, as if he'd already won.

* * *

Thank you. Please let me know if you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** Thank you so so much for the reviews. I was completely overwhlmed. I'm glad you're enjoying it thus far and I hope you continue to. Please leave a review if you can.

* * *

"And how is she?"

Gomez shrugged, setting aside the billiard que on to the stand mounted on the wall. He'd taken a cold shower, tossed his clothes aside, tried to stymie the unholy pictures of the ebony haired girl that burned behind his eyelids. It was useless, he hadn't slept in days and his hands shook.

"I'm restless, let's go to the city," he suggested instead of answering his friend.

Willliamson took a slug of Scotch, "No, and anyway, we have a busy day tomorrow."

"I want to…" he shrugged, "It's so final. We could get Baltazhar to meet us there?"

"Or we could drink this Scotch, get very drunk, and you can pour your woes out in the comfort of your home," his friend suggested lightly, tipping more of the amber liquid into his own crystal glass.

"I don't know what I expected," he rolled the ball forcefully across the smooth felt, so it landed in the left corner pocket with a thunk.

"You expected not to be forced to marry, for one, old chap," his friend answered, "And you expected a girl who'd be a loyal wife."

The implicit fact that Ophelia had a reputation for her friendliness towards the boys didn't rile him, in fact it did nothing but make him sigh. He plucked at his cravat restlessly, ran his fingers along the felt, touched the smooth wood of the table.

"It's warm in here, isn't it?"

He felt he was going to faint.

"And what of her sister? I hear she's a rare beast," his friend asked, handing him an over-full glass, "Though no one really knows who she is. No one I've spoken to anyway. Apparently keeps herself to, well, herself."

He felt his innards twist above his beltline and below, the pain shot to the back of his spine, crawled upwards into his chest where it settled like ice.

"She's…unremarkable," he lied, thinking of long legs and dark, brutal eyes against snow-white skin.

"Pity," his friend shrugged, "I thought she might be a nice scrap from the table for me."

The cruel nature of his joke wasn't unusual between them, yet Gomez felt rage cloud him; hot and absolute behind his eyes.

"Old chap, you look suddenly pale," Williamson said.

"It's nothing," he muttered, "But no, her sister wouldn't be interested in you. I'd wager she'd be uninterested in everyone and everything."

Williamson merely frowned, "Addams, you're distracted."

"I'm…" he sighed, "I suppose I am."

His friend put his que aside, "You're going to have to make peace with it. God knows you'll be married to her forever. You'll need to come to terms with it."

"It isn't-," but the words jammed in his throat.

"At any rate, Ophelia seems game for fun," his friend laughed, a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood, "Or so I hear."

"It's all conjecture," he led the way from the billiards room, past Lurch in the quiet hall, and into the parlour, "She may well be as frigid as ice."

"I'll phone Balthazar," his friend suggested with a roll of the eyes that conveyed his frustration, heading to the telephone, "See if he fancies a night out? Would that make you smile? We'll get him to bring those Russian girls along."

Gomez slumped down in the chair, not even brightening at this suggestion.

He felt his friend's eyes on him as he stared dejectedly in to the fire.

"I wish Fester hadn't taken off," he said as soon as Williamson hung up the phone.

"You can wish all you want," his friend muttered, "But the fact is he is not here and you are getting married because of that."

He groaned, "You are the worst friend…"

Williamson smiled and clapped a hefty hand on to his shoulder, "Come on old chap, your misery is boring. This is not who you are!"

He nodded, "No, who I am is the future Mr. Opehlia. God, she's awful."

"She can hardly be as terrible as all that," his friend topped up his glass, "With a dowry of such abundance."

"That is only because her parents are frightened they won't shed her otherwise," he answered, "I-"

"Please, stop! You're making _me_ miserable. Balthazar will meet us there," Williamson threw him his coat and it landed solidly on his face, "Come on you miserable lout."

He stood up and shrugged his coat on, trying to gird himself to at least appear pleasant:

"Is he bringing those Russian girls?"

Despite his cousin Balthazar's many faults, his abilities to ensnare pretty women and drink profusely were not amongst them.

Williamson smiled, "Ah, yes," his friend laughed, "That's the smile I wanted!"

The city was bustling and busy, and the pressed bodies and noxious alcohol made him forget the agony of her tantalising distance. They trawled club to club, picking up acquaintances and friends and a circus freak along the way. And the Russian girls helped to heal his misery too, in their own way, for the fleeting moments of time that he could wish one of them ebony hair and a distant gaze. In their own delightful, brazen, fleshy way they brought about amnesia. They found a booth in the heaving nightclub and one of the delightful harlots took a liking to his knee and settled there while she clumsily guzzled martinis, on the tab he'd kindly opened.

"You are wealthy?"

He squeezed her thigh and thought of pure marble whiteness under his olive hands, "I am, obscenely so. That's why you are so enjoying those martinis you clever little thing."

She giggled and smeared a hand across her pink mouth, which he learned, a moment later, tasted sweet and cheap and warm.

"Mr. Addams," she giggled against his mouth, "You are a very good kisser."

"Years of practise," he hauled her nearer so her tight body was pressed against his. She pulled away again though, her flighty hand reaching for the martini.

"Seems you've rather forgotten your woes," Balthazar commented loosely at his side, his cigar smoke enveloping him.

Baz was always one to remind him of the things he hated. He smiled anyway at his inebriated cousin and shook his head.

"No," he watched the drink dribble from her mouth and imagined rich, soft ruby lips around a wine glass, "No, no. A distraction."

"Aha," Baz grinned, "Of course. Of course."

"A…what was the word?" The girl asked curiously.

"A distraction pet," he nuzzled her neck, "A very beautiful, easy distraction."

She giggled then, and pressed herself to him. He was lost instantly, in her easy manner and invitations which were a world away from his reality.

"Well well," a voice, liquid in his ear, suddenly cut through the heavy embrace.

He receded sloppily from the kiss to find himself face to face with curious blue eyes. At first he didn't quite understand. He was dull with wine and lust and he didn't recognise her. Then, in an instant, he did.

And horror filled him, "Ophelia!"

"Hello dear," she smiled, though there was a sharpness in the gesture that he did not miss, "It would be terribly arrogant of you to have all the fun, wouldn't you say."

"Excuse me," he said to the dazed girl on his lap, simultaneously setting her aside.

She let out a little squeal of distress as he deposited her on the leather bench but she was, almost instantly, in his cousin's lap instead.

"You get rid of your toys quickly," Ophelia laughed but not in any way angry or irritated, simply curious.

"I didn't know-"

"There is so much you don't know about me," she leaned towards him, "But if we are going to make this work because, let's face it, we have no other option, then we must come to an agreement that is profitable for both of us. And one day, you'll want me more than that girl."

He knew he sounded like an utter ponce the moment the words left his mouth: "Don't you want more than an agreement? Don't you want love?"

She tossed her head back, a cruel little giggle spouting towards the ceiling.

"Oh dear, dear precious stupid man," she reached for the half-empty martini and swirled it then lifted the olive to her mouth.

If the gesture of its consumption was supposed to be obscene, it certainly was. He felt his gut stir, against his will, at the sight of her confident mouth.

"Ophelia," her bowed his head, suddenly ashamed, "We should go somewhere a little less….public. If we are to have this conversation."

"I suppose so," she sighed and sucked the bitter little fruit into her mouth.

"Now?"

"Not now - tomorrow or the following day," she grinned and pointed to a hulking, dark looking fellow at the bar, "See that man there?"

He nodded as he looked the brute over. The man was a gurning bag of muscle, cracking his knuckles. He felt his gullet constrict as he looked back at her face. For a second it was sour, then blank.

"He wants to do to me what you were just doing to her," she laughed, "And maybe more. And as long as we have this tacit agreement, then I think I am alright with that."

She bounced on to her feet and slid from the booth ready to leave but not before she leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. He didn't know if he was supposed to feel envy, or even if she wanted him to feel that way, but he simply felt relieved at knowing she hadn't suddenly fallen in love with him.

Or maybe she had, and that jagged little scene was to let him know his time was almost up.

"Good by darling. Tomorrow then," she whispered against his mouth and then twirled away.

He watched her go, her almost white hair flying out behind her back.

"That was awkward," Williamson laughed, watching her too.

"It was…bizarre."

"Coming from you, that's certainly rich," Williamson answered, as he began pouring some vodka into the brunette's mouth.

She let it gurgle from her mouth to her chin, where his friend made light work of cleaning it up.

He felt suddenly repulsed.

"Excuse me," he murmured, standing up.

The girl who'd previously been in his lap reached up a hand, "Stay Mr. Addams."

"I can't," he mumbled, "Have to get home."

"Oh come on old sport," Baz grinned, "Come on. We could go to the den, get some laudanum, have some fun with these lovely girls…"

He shook his head and pulled his silk scarf around his neck, "No, home it is."

"Let him go," Williamson cried, "If he cannot be consoled we won't force him."

He slouched away then, out into the cool of the streets, slippery with detritus and people and trash. He adored the streets of this city; they had birthed him, raised him, and educated him. There was anonymity here and peace. He wandered slowly, his cane tapping against the sidewalks, and he found himself wandering towards the park. The wandering was what he was good at, he supposed, it was staying tethered that he most poorly performed at.

His thoughts, unoccupied with distraction, once again came to focus on the sister of his intended. It had just been a glance, below long eye lashes, but her eyes. Oh her eyes.

He felt himself grow unbearably warm and he ripped his scarf from his neck and stuffed it in his pocket.

Those eyes, those lips, those long pale fingers.

The glisten of demise, the glimmer of ice, the miniscule flush on her nacre skin.

"No, no, no," he mumbled to himself, "No you misinterpret her. How could she, such an exquisite creature, want a rake like you?"

And with that sudden realisation the misery was absolute. He stared at the river and considered, seriously, the icy sanctuary of the water below. It rushed past, foaming and inviting and excruciating in its desire to have him whole. He stepped onto the ledge but, with a cry like that of a wounded animal, fell back again on to the bridge.

After a while of profuse sobbing, propped against the iron sides of the monstrous bridge, he picked himself up again and dusted himself off.

Even death couldn't possibly comfort his need, his want, of her.

It was as simply dire as that.

* * *

So what did you think? Could you please review and let me know? If not, I just hope you enjoyed it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:** Thank you, thank you, to those who have reviewed. To those who sign in as a 'Guest', I can't thank you through a message, so I'll reiterate it here.

I am glad you're enjoying this story.

* * *

"Mmmmm," she cooed as the plant wrapped itself tightly, prickling and affectionate, around her ankle, "Mmmm, mama missed you too."

The plant slithered towards her hand, where she held a freshly caught mouse, which swung, terrified, from side to side, within her fingers. The thrill of its trembling, of its fear, was somehow more intense when it was at her own hand.

"Dinner for Cleo," she dangled the squealing little rodent over the clicking jaws, "That's right baby…good girl."

"The way you talk to that plant…." Her sister said behind her, "It makes me shudder. I can't decide if you want to seduce it or mother it."

Morticia smiled as she watched the plant masticating, "Nor can I. How was your night?"

"Boring," her sister answered listlessly, "Apart from…."

Morticia turned to her and Cleo snaked up her spine and onto her shoulder, where she wound herself around her neck. She had the distinct feeling her sister wanted her to encourage her, to coerce the story of her night from her, so she remained silent.

"How you will ever find a man who'll take that into his house," her sister smirked at her own tangential thoughts, "Or let you whip him senseless, I don't know. If only mama and papa knew how truly twisted their little girl was. Oh if they knew about the blood….so much blood."

"I am simply more subtle than you," she said quietly, seriously, "What were you going to say?"

"Oh, yes," Ophelia perched on the dusty glass table, "I was going to say I ran into my fiancé."

At this Morticia's skin prickled with tension and the plant, reacting, shrunk from her. She cooed softly, ran a comforting finger across her tendrils.

Ophelia didn't notice, or at least, she pretended not to. Morticia would bet it was the former. For all she was clever, Ophelia, her conceit made her concentrate solely on herself and fail to see the wider, more dangerous picture.

"Oh?"

"Yes," Ophelia fluttered a dramatic hand, "But to say I ran into him wouldn't convey quite the situation. No, I spotted him, glued at the mouth with a little slut. He was quite taken aback."

Morticia felt the shudder of jealousy again, of something humiliating and enticing all at once. And she knew the other woman in the room was feeling it too but it had a different make-up to Morticia's.

"Ophelia, you knew he-"

Her sister laughed, "Of course I did. I don't care if he does it first. If anything, it gave me leverage. The thing is, darling, I shan't be one to take any sort of humiliation. If he cheats on me, he'll have to face the prospect that I will humiliate him as equally. Tish, you can't seem to understand how this will, how this _must_ work. And he must see it too."

Morticia couldn't help but feel the monologue was contrived, a front for her hurt pride that he hadn't fallen prostrate in worship at Ophelia's feet as soon as he'd clapped eyes on her.

"I do," Morticia concentrated on the sharp, sticky, gaping mouth of Cleo as the plant slithered over the arm of the chair, "I do. It is simply…"

Her sister came towards her and kneeled on the stone flagons at the foot of her chair, "Oh Morticia, you don't see at all. I never, ever lose out, and certainly not to a man. You'll understand, little Tish, when you find yourself in love or, at least, bound to someone you are supposed to love."

She watched her sister go, the poisonous declaration that she already was, on her tongue.

She felt tears prickle behind her eyes and pushed them away. The plant curled around her neck and tightened.

"I am perfectly alright," she whispered, her nails digging gently in to her palms, "I swear my darling."

Content, the plant loosened and curled down towards her ankles.

She sat back, breathed in the damp and cold around her, and knew precisely then that there was nothing, simply nothing, that could break her resolve in this matter. She wanted, desperately, to test the borders of this new, unexplored desire but to break the bonds of sorority was something she could not, would not, do. Her sister, despite the frivolity and lightness of her step and actions, was never to be beaten or trifled with. An innocent, large-eyed Morticia had learned that, dangling from crudely strung ropes, at the tender age of eleven. But there was something else too, an edge to Ophelia's words, which suggested a determination to see this through for all of the other benefits of the marriage; the money and home, the cars and the children and the servants.

The prospect of something to control, to order around for fear of the exposition of his shame.

Her mind flittered to devious thoughts, ones she explored only in the confines of the coldness of her own bed. She thought of his broad body, his dark half-lidded eyes that had sparked with a deliciousness she'd yet to know, yet to taste. She wondered at what his skin would smell of, taste of. Cigars, bitter oranges, earthy.

Her skin flushed with blood, rising to the milky surface till she felt it in her cheeks. It grew more, though she thought it could not, when she heard that rich, expectant voice echoing through the house.

"Mr. and Mrs. Nightshade," she heard, then a pause, "No, no nonsense. No need for tea, I should like to take my fiancé on a walk. That is all."

She stood up then, shrugging the plant from her with a promise of 'tomorrow' and floated quietly, invisibly up the stairs.

She pulled aside the heavy drapes and was able to see in to the beautifully tended gardens below, once she'd barricaded herself in her bedroom. The gardens were not to her taste, but rather her parents. She would have let it grow wild, untameable, dangerous, if ever she had the opportunity. But like everything she didn't control it, she merely speculated over the odds that one day she would. The garden fitted, she did not.

And she was tired of trying, quietly and wilfully, to fit.

They were not holding hands, her sister and Mr. Addams, and they walked a pace apart and formally. She wondered, for a second, what the conversation would be.

Then she realised she didn't want to know.

She sighed and let the heavy material fall into place at the window. She slid her hand around her back and plucked at the tiny buttons of her dress until it loosened and fell from her shoulder to her hips, her hips to the floor.

She pushed back the satin sheets, and slid in amongst the cold and quiet.

There she wept, fully and openly, at the unfairness of it all.

 **-0-**

"To whom do these belong?"

He asked to the room at large.

The tea he'd refused had been served anyway, in the quaint little library, and he had dutifully remained despite not wanting to.

"Oh, those," Mrs. Nightshade answered, "Those are Morticia's. We try to let the girls be…liberal. If they should wish. We don't stop them from reading," she seemed to blush, "Even if the books are…."

"Good, interesting, well written?"

He asked, despite knowing it seemed rude.

The woman laughed, achingly forced, and grinned.

"Well, they are to some tastes."

He ran his finger over the spine of 'In Cold Blood', nestled between 'The Divine Comedy' and 'Tropic of Cancer', and felt a smile at the kindred link being forged.

"Where is your youngest daughter?"

He inquired lightly.

"Oh," Ophelia set her tea cup down with exaggeration, "Tish doesn't like company. She's a strange little thing, really."

Her parents nodded enthusiastically at this and he retook his seat.

"Gomez, darling," Ophelia reached out to his hand and her sharp nails dug in, "Mama and papa thought an engagement party, to formally seal the deal."

He felt a ball of misery clog his throat and prevent his words.

"You see it'd make it official," her father said briskly, "We shall, of course, foot the bill. We'll do it simultaneously with the page six announcement."

He swallowed, "A splendid idea."

After their mutual agreement to attempt some kindness towards each other that had, just minutes ago, taken place in the gardens, he felt he could hardly refuse. He'd not sworn his fidelity and nor had she, but he'd sworn his allegiance to the agreement to make this bearable for either party. She'd seemed content, and that had been enough to assuage his panic at that moment.

Ophelia, beside him, sounded bored, "Isn't it just?"

"Your home, is of course, the bigger of the two," her father continued.

He wanted to say that it was, by quite a difference, but he deferred from sounding rude. Instead he smiled blandly again.

"Yes, yes of course."

"Of course."

"And dinner, just with family you mind, just to seal the deal?"

Mr. Nightshade was anxious to have tangible proof of the agreement, and it angered Gomez.

He nodded obligingly again, "My aunt did say," he said, "I wonder if my friend, Williamson, might join us. He will, after all, be my best man."

They all nodded happily, slurping at tea as they did.

"We should set-"

He stood briskly at those very words he'd been dreading, "But I must go. I really must."

He bent over Ophelia's hand, "Until Saturday my dear."

She smiled and, for a moment, he could have sworn he saw tenderness in her eyes. Maybe she'd just decided to change tact in order to win him over.

Terrified because of it, he went swiftly from the room.

He stalled though, just at the door, feeling other eyes on him. He turned on his heels and his eyes found hers, just at the top of the stairs.

She was half in shadow, half in light. Like the goddesses of film-noir or of dark paintings. Eyes unblinking, glistening, deep. She didn't say anything and he said nothing either. His eyes though, his eyes scanned every delicious silk-draped inch of her, from top to toe.

And when his eyes had drank all they could of the poison, they returned to her mouth to find a deadly smile there.

He flung the door open and ran, his feet carrying him faster than he'd ever thought possible.

His dreams that night, tossing between roasting sheets, were as boldly erotic as they were petrifying. He awoke in a puddle of sweat and terribly uncomfortable with shame. He tried, under a scolding spray, to shower it away but it had to be dealt with. Guilt, unseemly and full, filled his legs and his belly and his chest and exploded forth.

He stood for what felt like hours under the blast of the water and emerged only when his skin was numb with a more permanent shame and burning questions.

The parlour was quiet and at the far end his aunt was practising at her bridge table. Thing, forced to partner her, drummed irritated fingers against the felt.

"Aunt Lillith," he came to a halt before the table, "I need to talk with you."

Thing gave a relieved thumbs up and, bouncing from the table, scurried away.

Her eyes stayed on the cards for a minute more, to punish him no doubt, and then they flittered up. She looked irritated already.

"You seem flustered dear nephew," she motioned to the empty seat across the table.

Sitting, as he was bid, he was about to pour forth his agonies when she said:

"I truly hope this is not about your forthcoming marriage."

He faltered, then was resolute again, "I can't do it. I –"

She lifted her large, doleful eyes from her hand of cards. They were disturbingly moving.

"Before your broken-hearted mother died," she paused for impact and he felt it like a dagger, "She begged me, begged me, that I make sure you were settled."

He fiddled uncomfortably, "Maybe she didn't mean mar-"

"Of course she meant married," his aunt hissed, "What else would she mean? She knew what you were capable of. Maybe she needed to know you wouldn't be left to break every member of this family's heart."

Despite the tinge, the faint rustle of pride that flared in his chest, her words stung as paradoxically as they flattered. He had to acknowledge the truth in it; his pursuit of pleasure had already broken his family apart and yet here he was, considering it again.

He pushed his cry of outrage into his stomach where it grew poisonous and thick and putrid. His aunt set her cards aside and looked him squarely in the face. There was pity there, as well as frustration.

"My dear nephew," she shook her head, "It is, I promise, for the best. You need some sort of…stability. All you do is drink and gamble and womanise. Your businesses are-"

"Flourishing," he drummed his fingers on the table, "And you know it. Don't pretend this is about business. I've never done anything to compromise my business."

She nodded her head in concession but was nonetheless resolute.

"Marrying Miss Nightshade will be good for you," she returned to her cards, lifting her hand in front of her face so she could study it more closely, "And it was your mother's dearest wish."

He knew there was no fight to be had, no protest to be brooked, so he stood and went from the room.

The train room was familiar and welcoming, damp with mustiness and diesel and the tangy bitterness of twisted metal. Thing had scampered behind him, quiet and watching, and a presence who was offering comfort.

"Fester doesn't know what he's done," he ripped the chair out from the console and reached for the scarlet diesel engine at his side.

Thing made no motion in affirmation and Gomez knew it was a petulant statement to say the least. His brother had fled because of what Gomez himself had done, not because he'd been selfish. He had been hurt at Gomez's perfidy – and quite rightly so.

He set the train clumsily on the track and sparked up the switch.

"Always thinking with my-"

Thing shook his fingers warningly and, had he had ears, he would have blocked them up. Gomez considered it decent to spare him and didn't finish his own musings.

Thing gave a thumbs up of thanks. It was difficult for his childhood pet to acknowledge his master's determination to lead the life of a rouè. At any rate, he didn't have to acknowledge it as long as Gomez didn't force the issue.

The trains, started up, began whizzing around the track, the sound of metal on metal sharp and soothing all at once. The noise was a welcome one, filling up his head so he needn't think.

Or at least, that was what he had hoped for. It didn't work though. Instead the noise was the soundtrack for a tableu, in which she was a sirene. Ebony hair whispering out against a grey, stormy sky. Pale skin off-set by lightening. And the noise her call, whispering and deafening all at once.

It was no use.

His finger darted out, the trains ground to a halt and he slammed his head onto the surface of false terrain before him.

"Oh Thing! How my heart aches."

Thing flicked his earlobe in gentle questioning.

"Oh old man," he opened his eyes and squinted at the hand, "You wouldn't understand."

Thing's finger drummed a 'try me' gesture inches away from his face.

"Her sister."

Thing scurried back and began to shake profusely.

"See, that's why I didn't tell you."

Thing shook his finger warningly.

"I won't do anything," he cried, "I swear it!"

But he could tell, from the little shudder, that Thing didn't believe him.

He was firm though, in his decision. He couldn't break any more than he already had. Even for a delicious goddess who's eyes sang to him.

"No no," he said to Thing, "No I won't. I mean it old chum, I mean it."

Thing scuttled nearer.

"You do believe me, don't you?"

Thing gave a thumbs up but it simply wasn't as true as either of them wanted it to be.

* * *

So I like things to go very slowly, I hope you do too! Please review if you can.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:** Thank you so much for the reviews and reading the story. I hope you like the tension in it, I tried really hard to focus on this. Please review if you can but if not simply enjoy it. I do enjoy criticism (glutton for punishment) so if there's anything that doesn't work let me know.

* * *

She ran her fingers over her hips, smoothed out the silk which sat there, tight over the corset in which she'd bound herself.

"You look pretty," her sister said and flittered in to raid her jewellery box. Morticia had stopped fighting these tiny violations a long time ago, because they were exhausting.

"Thank you."

"I wonder if Mr. Addams will think the same about me," Ophelia said casually.

"Would you want him to?"

She did not look her sister in the eye.

"Ohhh," Ophelia nudged her out of the way to choose between the ruby pendant and the silver pearls, "Ohhh who knows? We have to make it congenial. That much we did agree to."

"Really?"

She heard her voice quaver a fraction but it was hidden in the gentle question.

"Oh Morticia," Ophelia let the pearls rattle carelessly onto the dresser and flopped down on to the bed, "We had a talk. For the first time he seemed…decent."

Morticia felt her lip tremble against petulant emotions. She clasped her hands together and turned and faced her sister. It was starting to turn now, she could tell. Ophelia's loathing was turning to determination to prove him weak against her charms.

"That was what you wanted, was it not?"

Ophelia nodded, "Oh I don't know...well yes. I suppose a less acrimonious environment might be better for us both. I'm going to have to make it work somehow."

"You're coming around."

Ophelia smiled stiffly and Morticia realised her miscalculation as quickly as the words were out of her mouth. They had been accusing, if only slightly, but her sister knew her enough to sense the intonation.

"I meant, simply, that you seem happier with the arrangement," Morticia smiled in an attempt to cover her misstep, "And that is a good thing."

"Of course it is," Ophelia stood lightly on her tip toes and twirled to the door, "Who wants a miserable marriage?"

"Not me," she whispered as she watched her sister disappear through the door.

She went to the dresser and sat down in front of the cloudy, spotted mirror. Her own hand flittered across her sharp cheekbones, her full and red lips, and the prominent dip between the spikes of her collarbones. Her hands became his, soft and questing across her neck and face and lips and hair.

Then as quickly as the fantasy came it went in a blur of embarrassment. She pulled her hands away as if they burned and settled them tightly in her lap. She sat there until she heard them pouring in to the hall and she had to still her hands from shaking.

 **-0-**

Gomez was already pouring his third cocktail by the time he was able to look at her. He knew, instantly, the moment she'd come into the room but that had been two drinks ago and over an hour before. He daren't look at her. It had been Williamson's groan of approval that had alerted him to her presence as he took his second sip on his first martini.

"Christ," Williamson had muttered under his breath and Gomez had pretended not to know what he meant as he sucked on an olive, breathless and blinded by the way she entered the room.

" What?"

"Is that her sister?"

"Don't be so loud," he'd turned deliberately to the window and away from the body of the room, "It's her sister, yes."

"Oh, I'd let her-"

"Don't," he'd interrupted, though she was well outwith earshot, "She's just there."

Williamson had laughed, "That's never worried you before."

"Nonetheless," he had downed the drink, feeling it burn his throat and cleanse all the filthy pledges from his vocal chords, "She's going to be my sister-in-law."

"That doesn't mean she is out of bounds, old man," his friend patted his shoulder consolingly, "Well, not for me anyway."

He'd had no answer for that and actually he had, for the first time, been grateful for Ophelia's interruption to proudly kiss him and make a show of her new acquisition. He was sure it was some sort of malfunction of social norms that he was the trophy tonight, but he was and he had to put up with it.

"My darling," she cooed in the present, bringing him from his recollection, "The dinner gong."

In his haziness he'd forgotten to check the seating arrangements and it was too late, and all the guests were seated, when he realised he was sitting directly across from Morticia at this, his engagement dinner.

Oh her name. Her name alone, coursing through his conscience when he read it on the setting just across from him, scarring his cerebrum and changing neural pathways and spiking the chemicals that stirred his lungs to a breathless desperation.

During the first course she barely looked at him, her eyes trained on the plate before her and her food staying exactly where it was on the china. Her untouched plate was taken away, replaced by the main course, as the chatter seethed and undulated around her and he was pulled in and out with place settings and honeymoons and wedding gowns but all the time she was there, head dipped, eyes trained low, not a word or a smile for him.

And he was filled with black misery at her very lack of attention.

He couldn't get the courage to speak to her, and he slid his dessert away as his previous courses surged in an undigested spew into his throat and he ran, brogues thumping, to the nearest rest room.

At least he had a reason to excuse himself.

"Get yourself together, old man," he grumbled in to the mirror, "For God's sake she's just a girl."

But no, his conscience answered, she's not just a girl.

She's a woman, a woman who makes your heart sing and your loins ache with desperation.

And that, that my friend, is love.

And he found his head in the toilet bowl again, the desire he suppressed manifesting as a burning bile.

"Are you alright Gomez?"

Ophelia's voice was distant on the other side of the heavy door. He cupped his hand and splashed water into his mouth, then loosened his bow-tie.

"Get. Yourself. Together."

"What?" She asked from the other side, "What?"

"Oh, Nothing," he pulled the door open and then smoothed his tails out, "Oh just something I ate."

She smiled, "Want me to make you feel better?"

"Sorry?"

He was startled by her sudden turn in coyness.

"Listen, if we're going to have to be married…" she shook her head as if his confusion was stupidity, "It might as well be fun sweetie."

Her hands wandered down to his belt line and he leaned back as they slid sharply into the gap between his abdomen and the rich wool.

"You really aren't shy."

She grinned like a cat, "Well I can hardly be shy with a husband who has a reputation as…illustrious as yours."

"Illustrious?"

"I mean promiscuous."

He groaned under her hand, wise and coaxing, but then he thought of Morticia again and all the desire for physical relief fled him as if he were already inconstant to her. Panic set in that he'd never be the same again, that he'd never be carefree or happy if he did not possess the creature who haunted him.

"Don't believe everything you hear," he pulled back and her hand slid from his waistband, "Sorry, but I have to have a little more respect for you than this."

She laughed and examined her palm, "No you don't. You just can't…" she grinned in delight, "Rise to the occasion."

He gritted his teeth against embarrassment, "The girl holding it has to know what she's doing."

"Oh you aren't going to rattle me," she said lightly, perching on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "One day I'll be the mother of your children. You'll have to want me at some point, to keep the family happy."

"And God knows before I do it I'll need to be very drunk," he smiled grimly, "I think we best go back to the parlour."

When they got back he sought solace in Williamson's company, while Ophelia was happy to stand apart with her mother. The exchange had left him rattled with the very truth of it; one day, he'd have to take her to his bed. His indiscretions would need to be fewer and discreet and all the while he'd be desperately, darkly, irredeemably in love with her sister. The one woman he just knew, without question or thought, who he would never stray from.

"Not feeling well my friend?"

"Something like that," he murmured, pouring himself a sizeable brandy and pulling a cigar from his pocket with a shaking hand.

"Gomez, I am actually starting to worry," Williamson muttered, "I really am. Something is strange about you these days. You aren't you."

"My friend," he felt the booze nursing the worst of his panic, "I am fine."

"Are you sure?" Williamson motioned with his hand towards the window seat, where Morticia sat, a drink cradled in her fingers, "You seemed to be…preoccupied at dinner."

Gomez swallowed, "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"I don't blame you," his friend continued, "You've ended up with the least aesthetically pleasing of the sisters."

"Oh that's hardly fair," he protested, agreeing full well.

"Look at those legs," Williamson drew his attention to the window seat again, where a pale and shapely leg which ended in a sharp high-heel was exposed through a slit in the inky satin of her dress, "Imagine them wrapped around your neck."

"Don't be crude," he said half-heartedly, while he fully invested in the fantasy.

"God," Williamson took a draw on his own cigar, "Being engaged has made you far too serious and honourable."

"Miserable," he countered, draining the glass as he watched Ophelia approach Morticia.

Then suddenly they were coming towards them both. Williamson sucked in a breath - and the flabby little gut too much champagne and not enough exercise had given him – and gave his most winning grin. On the other hand, Gomez felt a scowl of determination come on to his face of its own volition and settle in a grim line across his mouth.

"I'm trying to get Tish to socialise more," Ophelia chirped as she came to a stall in front of them, "But she hates it, don't you Tish?"

He looked at her again, trying hard not to grin at the very beauty of her and the way the nickname seemed deliciously inappropriate. He imagined his own voice caressing the syllable, crying it, weeping it. Her eyes were wide with something unreadable, something akin to disgust almost. He felt suddenly chastened.

"I do, yes," she answered quietly, "I do not enjoy it."

"Forgive me," he suddenly barked as Williamson gave a cough, "My friend, William Williamson the Third. Williamson - my intended Ophelia, and her sister…your name again, miss?"

The feigned forgetfulness did not have the impact he had hoped. He wanted her to feel affronted but instead her eyes narrowed with distaste at his poor manners and he realised he'd simply seemed stupid in his ignorance rather than aloof.

"Sorry, Morticia of course," he corrected quickly, ignoring the questioning gaze his friend leveled at him.

"Your forgetfulness was almost bad manners Mr. Addams," she said softly, her eyes all the time on Williamson, "But, since we are to be family, I imagine I'll have to get used to that."

"Forgive Tish," Ophelia laughed lightly, "She thinks it's simply quite acceptable to speak her mind at all times."

"You're an acquaintance of Mr. Addams, Mr. Williamson?"

Morticia asked, not missing a beat.

"Indeed," his friend smiled, bowing low over her offered hand.

Williamson's lips lingered longer than they should and Gomez felt a surge of envy as his friend tasted bitter almonds and the soft, pale skin on the back of her hand. When he withdrew, he heard the shallow breathing which indicated a spike in the hear-rate of his companion. It was how he felt all the time these days, simply when he thought of her.

"And the pleasure," Williamson smiled, "Is all mine."

"Oh is it now?" Ophelia laughed, "This is why my little sister doesn't leave the house. Everywhere she goes, she leaves a trail of dead men behind her."

The gracious smile on those ruby lips was enough to putrefy his insides and her eyes flittered to his own. They locked him in then, sucked him in as if a vortex, and they were black and deep and dark. Then she turned around and went, floating away without even a word of goodbye. Williamson followed for a moment, then shook his head as if regaining his senses and skulked off to the drinks table, where Gomez watched him pour the biggest brandy of his life.

"And _she_ accused you of being rude," Ophelia tucked her arm into his and sipped her drink.

Her pale pink lips curled licentiously around the rim but there was something dangerous about them too, as if they would consume him whole.

He tore his eyes away in terror, "She doesn't like me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ophelia answered, "Morticia is simply…a certain type of confident. She's like a black widow…she'll throw silk at you for hours but she'll bite if she's cornered. Then she's deadly. Until then, you needn't worry about her."

He wanted to ask if she mated with men and then ate them too but the stirring below his belt line at the very thought was enough to make him faint with prurience.

"You look all flushed my love," she whispered, holding a hand against his brow, "Don't worry; my little sister will soon come round to you. She just takes a while."

He swooned and had to stumble to the window seat to catch a breath.

* * *

So what did you think? Slow burner in the extreme? Please leave a review if you can.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:** Thank you so very much for your reviews. I am very pleased you're enjoying it.

* * *

"He thinks you don't like him," Ophelia said casually, handing over a particularly vivid rose for decapitation.

She feigned ignorance, "Who?"

"Gomez, of course. You should make more of an effort to be nice to him."

Morticia bristled at the suggestion and snipped a little more aggressively at the rose. The bud bounced onto the table then on to the floor.

Her voice though, when she spoke, was cool and soft:

"I've barely exchanged two words with him. How can he have formed any opinion at all?"

Ophelia handed her another rose.

"Oh, he's sensitive. That is all."

She watched as her sister moved towards the window.

She felt the quiver of envy again, sharp and icy as it expanded across her chest. She didn't need to be chastened by Ophelia, who was now looking to score points with her new fiancée in any way she could. The discernment between hatred and love was narrowing, and Ophelia was losing her grip on the distinction.

"Ophelia, do I hear affection in your voice?"

Her sister paused, fingered a clinging vine that was draped over the shelf at her side.

"Oh, I suppose… perhaps a little," Ophelia shook her head, "There's something attractive about him, I think. It cannot be denied that he is…handsome."

Morticia turned back to the roses, grateful for the vast quantity needing beheaded.

"He is going to be my husband," her sister continued after a pause, "And if that's not an incentive to try, I don't know what is. Plus, he's going to need to come round."

Biting her lip and feeling, of all things, the duress of tears in her eyes, Morticia nodded.

"Yes, I imagine it is."

Ophelia slid listlessly into the musty chair beside the table.

"Just try with him, for me, won't you?"

"Oh my darling sister," Morticia conveyed the emotion as simultaneously as she felt it and was as surprised by the fierceness of it, "I will try harder, I swear it."

Ophelia laughed, though it was sweet and kind as well as mocking.

"Tishy," she giggled, "One moment you're as cold as ice and the next…" she shrugged, "You're sweet really, aren't you? I know you'll try. I know you will. I know we don't have the…closest of relationships. But for me, you must try. He must be comfortable, happy, at all times."

Ophelia left eventually, before the roses were done, and she was finally alone. She grasped the edges of the table in a white-knuckled desperation, her red nails curling inwards as she fought tears. She was wearied with the multitudinous emotions every time she thought of him or saw him or heard his name. Her self-control, even when she had been an infant and challenged with new toys or temptations, was legend and here she was; a quivering, desperate disaster at the very thought of him.

She slid into the chair amidst a plume of dust and even Cleopatra shuddered away, fearful her mistress' wounds could not be soothed. And they could not be soothed, she knew. The only salve were his words, his lips, his fingers, his eyes, and his unending servitude. Perhaps they were the only things which would cure her.

She allowed herself, for the first time, to really picture him whole. Until now it had been fragments and wreckage from a floundering desire which had surfaced on the shore of her conscious when she least expected it, but now she allowed herself the pleasure of seeing him fully, entirely, and uninhibited by sorority or propriety, in her mind.

Everything about him was attractive and repulsive at the same time and if, and when, she wanted she could have him in a moment.

Where Ophelia blustered to cover a lack of self-confidence, Morticia remained silent for fear of sounding as if she might devour herself - such was her confidence.

No, she was confident in her ability to ensnare him with just a look.

But the quandary, as well she knew, was that she could not have him then discard him.

A cry welled up in her chest at the revelation that she would never just be done with him.

That she was, for the first time in her life, in love.

"Why are you moping in here?"

Her mother was suddenly at the door.

She swiped at tears that had yet to fall and stood.

"Oh, nothing I am-"

"We are going to the couturier, remember?"

Her mother was already dressed – in fur despite the boiling heat pressing itself into the house – and Morticia felt her irritation sharply.

"I quite forgot," she muttered.

Her mother sighed and threw her hands up, "Your head is in the clouds these days Morticia. You need to stop moping about the house."

"Mama, after we pay a visit to the couturier might I meet Carmen? I had said I would."

Her mother gave a huff of affirmation and smiled as she turned away.

"I don't know why you are friends with her," Ophelia commented, sliding into the car minutes later, "She's such a lush."

Morticia smiled slightly, amazed at the irony in her sister's words.

"There's no accounting for taste," she simply answered, "You're welcome to join us."

"Oh I'd rather die," Ophelia grinned and sat back.

After minutes Morticia looked at her sister without her knowing it. She was examining the gauche engagement ring he'd given her at the dinner. She'd never thought she'd shed tears of jealousy over a piece of jewellery but it turned out she had.

 **-0-**

"Champagne?"

She took a seat beside Carmen and nodded her assertion as her friend poured a generous saucer for her. She stared at the sparkling gold for a moment before lifting it to her mouth and gulping almost half of it down.

"How are the wedding plans?"

Carmen derived intense pleasure from other's misery and it was this, above all her qualities, that most appealed to Morticia about her dearest friend. That and the contrast between them; Carmen, red-headed and loud and wondrous, was all fire where she was bleak ice.

Morticia cocked a brow, "Ghastly."

"Oh Morticia, your sister is such a harridan. Honestly. And a petulant little tramp to boot."

"It's not that," she poured some more, not jumping to Ophelia's defence when faced with the truth, "I don't know…it's just…"

"Come on loquacious one, spit it out."

Morticia smiled despite herself, "It's nothing."

"How is the illustrious Mr. Addams?"

"He's…." her words failed her, then the truth was there as much as it wasn't, "He's certainly full of character."

"So I hear," her friend smiled, "I met him once. I slept with his friend after a very drunk night. He plied me with champagne and he's filthy rich and Addams was goading him on. He sent me flowers after it, with a note of apology…" Carmen laughed, "They arrived just as I was cavorting with Todd. It was terribly awkward."

She recalled the man Williamson from the engagement party and it suddenly clicked. She'd been there that night, but left before Gomez Addams had arrived. Even if she had, she couldn't imagine it would have much mattered. She'd left with an older gentleman who promised to show her his collection of torture instruments in lower Manhattan. She had left his apartment a whole lot wiser, exhausted, and with a new acquaintance.

"Oh…I knew I'd met him somewhere before. I just couldn't recall."

"He wasn't half-bad actually, Williamson," Carmen offered her a cigarette, which she declined, then flicked her lighter open, "But he was so…worshipful. It was boring."

Morticia laughed and took another gulp of the champagne.

"Oh you are in a mood," Carmen said, then motioned for the waiter to bring another bottle, "You usually talk. But you've been reduced to that strange little silence."

Morticia watched as the young man came towards them but his path was soon blocked by two other figures who came to stand at the edge of their table.

She smiled at them both, then one of them lowered his mouth to her hand.

"Victor," she smiled at one, then the other, "Henry."

"Ladies," Victor, hair slick, smiled, "May we join you?"

Carmen cocked an eye brow and blew a plume of blue smoke towards them, her mouth curling slowly into an obscene 'o'. Morticia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"When have we ever said no?" Carmen asked on the tail of the smoke and then slid over to make room for them.

Them, and their expensive suits crushed from a hot and harried day on the stock exchange floor, slid in beside them.

Here she was, pressed again to Victor. Time just bored her with its repetition.

"Hey Morticia," he smiled and pulled a cigar from his pocket, "It's been a while. Have I weakened your resolve yet?"

She smiled, "Hardly."

"And after everything I did for you."

"Making her a fortune on the stock market doesn't count," Carmen interrupted, "Money doesn't matter to Morticia, even though she trusted you with hers. She keeps it all a secret though, so mama and papa don't know. Her secrecy is almost paranoia."

Morticia said nothing but she gave her friend a cruel little smile.

"Idle wealthy," Henry laughed and addressed her, "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That your sister is marrying the king of the idly wealthy?"

No matter what she did, she couldn't escape conversation of him.

"She's marrying Gomez Addams if that is what you mean."

"He's a crook," Henry declared, popping the cork on the bottle of champagne that had just arrived and hastily ordering yet another bottle before the waiter could make his escape.

"Aren't you all?" Morticia asked, genuinely curious.

"Yes," Victor grinned and she felt his hand slide nearer to her thigh, "He is just very good at it. He's a Yale Law graduate, but runs the family businesses. Tax avoidance, hostile takeovers…he's much cleverer than he looks."

Carmen nodded, flicked her cigarette ash into the glass ashtray in the middle, "He's handsome."

"He's not," Victor said sourly, "Of course he isn't. Is he?"

"I don't know," Morticia lied, mouth poised over her glass to take a sip.

In the midst of the grumbling, Carmen caught her eye and raised one knowing, altogether discomfiting brow.

The rest of the night passed in a fug of expensive booze and dancing. She didn't go with Victor, though there was the same sozzled temptation there always was, back to his apartment, which overlooked the river, despite his invitation. Carmen, with Henry clinging to her like a barnacle, and Victor licking his wounds in the corner, pulled her aside before she left.

"You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?" Carmen asked.

Morticia pulled her cloak on, "Whatever can you mean?"

"You know what I mean…you don't ever…"

She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, "You have my word."

"There's more at stake than fun," Carmen said seriously, pushing Henry's face away from her neck.

"If I didn't already know that, I'd be in his bed," she said icily and fled, the warmth of embarrassment spreading from her toes.

* * *

Ah, as I said, I like to drag it out. Please let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:** Thank you for reviewing the story so far, and for writing such lovely reviews. I hope you continue to enjoy it.

* * *

He didn't want to visit, really, but it had been over a week since the engagement dinner and it was starting to look, his aunt had warned, like he'd forgotten he was affianced at all. So he took a bouquet of roses, though they were not to his taste, and girded himself and was able to face the prospect of seeing his new fiancée after his breakfast was digested.

He declined Lurch's invitation to drive him, and Thing's offer of company, and in an unusual move drove himself. He was suspicious of their motives too; they trusted him as little as he trusted himself. It was hard to concentrate though and sleep was so scarce these days that keeping his eyes on the road proved more difficult that he'd imagined.

His dreams, in the intervening nights, had been so full of her.

She would invite him to her, hands and eyes and body beckoning and devour him softly, inch by inch. Throughout the dream, he would weep with pleasure and anguish and then suddenly he would jolt awake in an agony of arousal. His sleep would come fitfully time and time again, and each time it was the same. The same desperate hands on him, clawing and pale and soothing. The same disastrous smile.

When he reached the house he rattled the door and the ancient, decrepit butler answered.

"Mr. Addams," he bowed lower than his already folded back insisted, "A pleasure."

"Hmmm, yes," Gomez looked around the silent hall, "Are they in?"

"Miss Ophelia is out, and her parents are…" the butler paused, trying to recall, "They are lunching. Miss Morticia is-"

He thrust the flowers at the butler and was about to turn.

"Miss Ophelia, master, will be home soon. And Miss Morticia will keep your company, I am sure."

"It's alright, truly."

The butler slammed the door, determined to seem like a decent host, but then pushed the flowers back into his hands and scurried away. He waited for about five minutes in the silence of the hall before calling out and no one answered. With a frustrated sigh he strode forward, heading towards the back of the house.

The melodious humming wasn't immediate and he heard it in increments. A note, a bar, a phrase, then realisation; _Claire de Lune_ in the voice of a siren.

He stopped at the sudden light as he turned the corner and she was there, her back to him, framed against the blinding light of the day which filtered into the conservatory. She was tending to a plant but another was curling around her arm, its spiked vine digging into her arm, and then trailing in red scratches over her shoulders and round her neck.

"Mama missed you too," she cooed as the plant pressed itself to her cheek.

A pale hand, delicious as a contrast to the vivid green of the petulant plant, came up to tickle the bell of the vine's flowering, gruesome mouth. Something else stirred then, an appreciation or the womanliness, the maternal purr, of everything she was in that moment.

A vivid, deceitful vision flashed into his mind then; her, cradling an ebony haired child with his moustache. She was older, but no-less beautiful, and he was beside her bed as she presented the baby to him. It wasn't the first, he knew instinctively, maybe the last. It was years from now – it was after years of marriage.

The lump in his throat grew and began to choke him.

She turned suddenly, as if the plant had given him away, and the vine slithered down from her arm and wrapped protectively around her middle.

Her fingers stroked the shuddering verdure around her impossibly small waist.

"Oh Cleo, calm down," she said to it, then turned round and looked up.

Her face was blushing with the colour of the day and there was something vulnerable about it too. What was ordinarily perfectly set hair was curling into tendrils around her face and her lips were, if it was possible, even more plump and bloody in the flush heat of the sun.

He wondered if he'd ever be able to find the words to convey such beauty, to put what he witnessed into prose.

"Forgive me," he bowed lowly, the words pressing out, "I did not mean to startle you."

There was a pause but as he lifted his head she said:

"You didn't."

Despite the gentleness of it, it carried over the space between them. She may as well have screamed it at him for he heard every breathy syllable.

"But you did startle Cleopatra," she purred as she stroked the trunk of the plant, a gesture which made his vision blur, "Didn't he my darling?"

She stayed exactly where she was and so did he.

"I-I…" the words wouldn't come as he watched the rhythmic motion of her hand, "I…she's incredible."

He didn't know who (or what) the compliment was addressing.

It seemed to please her though and the sharp lines of her body appeared to soften a little.

"Isn't she? I've had her since she was just a seedling," the plant wrapped around her proudly and she trailed a gentle finger along the spiny thorns, "Yes I have."

He swallowed audibly again.

"My sister," she said softly as she turned back to the table, "Will be home soon. You should wait in the parlour."

"I-" his response, in the face of such a humiliating dismissal, disappeared as he spun on his heels.

He didn't go to the parlour though; he bashed past the ancient butler, nearly knocking him clean off his feet, and fled.

The things he would do to her? He'd murder her slowly, agonisingly, for the pain she was inflicting on him. How dare she dismiss him? He thrashed around his own study as these things ran through his brain. His paperweight crashed to the floor in a million slithers, his books lay ripped and strewn across the room and it was only when Thing entered that he stopped.

The pet had scurried backwards though, from an airborne first edition of 'War and Peace'.

Gomez, his ire seeming redundant now, slumped on to the floor beside his desk.

"Oh Thing!" He flung himself, prostrate, on the oak floor and thumped his feet.

Thing, used to these fits of mania, simply drummed his fingers in questioning sympathy against the wood.

"I'm in love," he groaned, "And she despises me."

Thing tapped out his platitude on the floor.

"Not bloody Ophelia," Gomez snapped, lifting his head and slamming it back down onto the surface, "I couldn't care less about her. I really couldn't. No, no, no. Morticia, Morticia, Morticia."

Thing jumped onto his back and started to scuttle up and down his spine soothingly.

"It's no use," he quickly flipped, so Thing was forced to jump 90 degrees to land on his chest, "She doesn't want me."

Thing tapped his disapproval.

"I know, I know," he groaned, "Not to mention that she is my fiancée's sister. You needn't remind me."

Thing just tapped his cheek lightly and then swiped away his tears.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:** Thank you, as always, for the reviews and support. I am glad you are enjoying this as much as I am when I am writing it. The story still has A LOT more to go, so please stick with it. If you would like to review, that'd be excellent, but if not I hope you're just really enjoying it. If there's anything you think needs changing, or feel isn't as good as it could be, I like to hear that too.

Thanks again.

* * *

"Has he been like this all week?"

Gomez heard Thing rattle out his affirmation to Williamson's question, and Lurch groan mournfully, from the other side of the door but it didn't rouse him from his stupor. He rolled over amidst the stink of the satin sheets and fumbled for a cigar stub on the bedside table. His clumsy hands knocked over an empty Scotch bottle which crashed to the floor.

"You better be decent in there," Williamson's voice said, "I'm coming in."

He pushed the double doors open as Gomez sparked the cigar up.

"God it reeks in here," Williamson went to the window, ripped aside the drapes and flung up the sash.

Then he strode towards the bed, tripping over trays of rotting food and empty glasses as he went, and tugged the sheets away.

"Not decent," he looked away in despair as he came closer, "You are disgusting, this entire charade is disgusting. I don't know what is wrong with you but it better stop."

Gomez simply took a pull on the cigar stub as he watched his friend navigate to the bathroom door and disappear within. A moment later he heard the hard gush of the shower and Williamson emerged with a fresh towel which he flung directly at his head.

"Get up," he cried, throwing his hands up, "Get up and get back to life. If your aunt wasn't at her bridge tournament you wouldn't be moping about like a lout."

"She's back at the beginning of next week," he pulled the sheets back over himself, "And when that happens I'll…get back to normal."

"Not good enough," Williamson whipped the sheets again, this time from the entire bed, and with a grimace chucked them onto the floor, "Lurch, Thing, get in here and help your master sort his life out. Lurch, I trust that by the time Mr. Addams get home you will have returned this room to its normal state."

Then Williamson gripped him by both arms and, hauling him across the bed, dropped him on to the floor where he spluttered for a moment life a fish.

"We're meeting Baz in an hour," his friend said as he rolled up his sleeves, "So you'd better hurry up."

-0-

They were an hour late and Baz was already full tilt when they arrived at their favourite bar. Williamson had reserved a table for them too and there was already a little flock of not-quite-friends gathered around Baz, while he lamented the death of his sobriety with all the humour he possessed. Gomez flung off his coat and slid onto his chair, making quite the dismissive show of his own arrival.

"Cousin!" Balthazar drooled as Gomez pushed his face away.

He was a wretched drunk, in Gomez's opinion, and his patience was already pushed to its limit with Williamson's brutal insistence that he pull himself together.

Williamson slid a whiskey towards him, "Drink."

Despite not wanting to, he did. The place grew busier, bodies pressed into a heaving throng of too much money and not enough responsibility. The music started – pulsating and dark – and there were a few dancers, then more, and gradually the floor became packed too.

None of it made him feel any better and the whiskey just dulled the agony, making it doughy and heavy in his head and gut.

"Better?"

He examined the content of his glass as he contemplated Williamson's question.

"Entirely," he lied and threw the dregs of the golden drink back.

"What's wrong with you, you old lout?"

Baz clapped his back roughly, forcing the whiskey back into his mouth and through his teeth where it dribbled onto his chin.

He rounded on him, "Sometimes I could slit your throat."

Baz laughed heartily and grinned, "Someone is irritated."

"Such perception," he sneered as the waiter topped off his glass.

Balthazar backed away a little, scooting clumsily to the edge of his chair.

"Sorry cousin."

"It's not your fault," Williamson assured, throwing Gomez a dirty look, "Your cousin is in a slump of titanic proportions and will not be comforted."

"What's annoying you?"

He shrugged, tired of the conversation already, "Nothing. Let's get champagne."

"He doesn't seem terribly ill to me," Baz grinned, then pointed a floppy hand to the door, "Well look at her."

Gomez did it slowly, already dreading what he'd see. And it wasn't any better for the sheer lure of the image in itself.

"God be damned!"

His curse was quiet but it was enough to make Williamson give him a sideways glance, then follow his eyes.

"Do you hate Ophelia's sister _that_ much?"

Gomez stared at her for a moment and felt the breath catch, as if snagging on a thorn, at the back of his larynx. She was arm in arm with another woman, with fierce red hair, who was laughing loudly. She was a slither of calm beside her friend, detached, as her eyes scanned the heaving floor. He followed the line of her body; from the satin of her hair, curling in tendrils across her shoulders and back, down the velvet of the dress which stopped just at her knees, to the extensive legs which ended in dangerous, sharp heels.

He felt his gut tremble.

As if she knew he was examining her with the same urgencies of a predator, her eyes flittered to him. They grew palpably wide for an instant but then she turned her patrician jaw away, whispered in her friend's ear, and they moved quickly through the crowd and disappeared into the throng.

"Who is she?"

Baz would soon need the drool wiped from his eager, stupid chin.

"Gomez's future sister in law," Williamson murmured, wriggling in his seat.

"She's-"

"We all know," Gomez cut him off, the desire to protect her honour from his friends as strong as his jealousy that they, too, desired her.

"But old man, she's practically edible," Williamson pushed, "And I'm going to talk to her."

He stood up but Gomez reached up before he was completely vertical and, grasping his shoulder, hauled him back into place. Williamson growled at him.

"Don't…" Gomez felt, suddenly, embarrassed, "It'll end in disaster."

Williamson chucked a drink back, "For you maybe."

"Don't be like that," Gomez pleaded gently, "It's just that-"

"I know exactly what it is," Williamson turned to him and looked him straight in the eye, "And you're a fool if you think you can bed her and-"

"It is so much more than that," he slid down.

"You always say that," Williamson looked over his shoulder fleetingly, to make sure Baz wasn't listening, "Your family will crucify you."

He grinned and felt nails, thorns, the rough splinter of wood and spears, and the wash of her tears.

Williamson shook his head and muttered: "That was the wrong thing to say."

 **-0-**

Morticia was relieved to be absorbed by the crowd and to be pushed amongst the body of patrons who were as keen on providing her with anonymity as she was of finding it. Carmen had listened to her plea to get to the bar, because she was parched too, and they had swept themselves into invisibility.

Victor was behind her a moment later, his hands on her hips as he leaned across and ordered martinis for them both. She let him tilt her head to the side but withdrew when his lips found the skin on her neck.

"Don't," she warned softly.

"Morticia," he murmured, hands deft and solicitous on her hips, "So beautiful."

She raised a brow as the bartender slid the drinks towards them, "I know I am."

"If we can, we should dance," he stepped back as Carmen pushed in between them and Henry sidled up awkwardly, carrying Carmen's bourbon.

"Trying to get your way before you pay for it?" Carmen asked Victor, blowing a ring of smoke, as was her habit, in his face.

He grinned and laughed but directed his question at Morticia, "Why are you even friends with her?"

Morticia grinned at her friend, "Because she's loathsome."

"You can say that again," he grabbed Morticia by the hand, and the suddenness of the motion made her spill her martini over her free hand, "Let's dance."

"Really, Victor," she paused to take a gulp of the drink, "I shouldn't."

She knew then that Gomez would see her again, or rather she'd see him, and all her endeavor would die in an instant surge of lust.

"Oh you love dancing," Victor grinned, "You do. And you love dancing with me."

"I know but…" she slid the glass onto a table by her side, just on the edge of the dance-floor, "But I shouldn't-"

"Bore," he grumbled, "Come on."

She nodded slowly, trying to keep them at the edge furthest away from _his_ table. When Victor's hands went to her hips she imagined his, when she moved against Victor's tall, athletic body it was Gomez's in her mind. And the treachery, and the joy, was enough to make her bite her lip, the flesh almost splitting under the pressure of her teeth.

Suddenly she saw Addams flash past her and knew then he'd been prowling the mirror-speckled dance-floor, like an animal. The music pulsed, like a chant, and he was right behind Victor's shoulder, his eyes dark and deadly as they met hers, her unsuspecting dance partner the only thing between them. He circled again and she saw his head disappear amongst the crowd. She froze instantly, fear and lust and all things unholy pounding in a rush of adrenaline through her veins.

"We need to move," she said to Victor, "We need to-"

"Morticia, don't do this to me again," he pleaded, "I'm in love with you."

She looked at him coolly, "Not right now."

He groaned, "But I am."

"I said-"

"The lady asked you to be quiet," a smooth, growling, accented voice muttered and there was a hand on her arm, tugging her away from Victor, "And I suggest you listen."

His fingers, as chaste as the contact was in the crook of her elbow, burned against her skin.

"Addams?"

Victor seemed to be shouting from the end of a long, deep tunnel.

He did not answer as he propelled her backwards and she felt it happen slowly, as if she was falling down a welcoming black hole. As he drew her through the crowd he pressed her back to him and gripped her elbows.

"Morticia, tell him to unhand you!"

Victor was screaming, pushing through the crowd which seemed to be swallowing him.

But her mouth was glued shut.

Outside though, in the dark and tangy heat of the night and the fug of smoke, her senses snapped back into place instantly.

She gently tugged her elbow away and he let her go as he shrugged his coat on.

"What on earth are you doing?"

He motioned to a sleek, black limo parked at the far end of the street. The vehicle drew up beside the side walk as a prowling extension of its master.

"You were perilously close to making a massive mistake in there," he held open the door for her, "And I would hate for you to bring shame on the family I am about to marry into."

She laughed and it bounced off the tall buildings around, "Don't flatter yourself."

He motioned to the car and asked gently, "Miss Nightshade, are you getting in or not?"

She didn't know what on earth possessed her but she took his offered hand and slid in. He joined her a second later.

"Why do you care so much about my virtue?"

He slammed the door shut, suddenly angry, and the car began to speed away. When he turned his face towards her there was fury glistening in his dark eyes.

"Why do you hate me?"

The Castilian accent, which sometimes edged his voice, was more evident when he was angered. Instead of frightening her, it shocked her to the core when her muscles clenched in desire as a response to his fury.

Then she was wordless in the face of his accusation. It took her all of her effort to say what she had to say:

"I do not hate you."

That was all it took, she would realise in later years, to say what had been passing between them for months before. He placed a rough hand around her neck and pulled her lips towards his. Her fingers flew to the smooth, olive skin of his face as his tongue forced between her teeth. She gasped and felt her grip on the world tilt away from her as she pushed herself into him, chest to chest, until he forced her against the seat and jammed her there. His hands moved down her arms, down onto her waist as she leaned into his caresses. Then, hands brave in the heat of the moment, they were pushing her dress up her thighs, which fell listlessly open at his touch. As suddenly as his hands began, though, they stopped.

"No," he pulled back, breathless and holding her still, keen fingers gripping her thigh, "No, not here."

She nodded her silent agreement, not sure where the right place for this sin was – if there was anywhere - and his mouth found hers again.

He pressed his face to hers and whispered, what felt like only seconds later, "My home, cara mia."

She looked outside and realised they were facing an endless stretch of barren land as two huge, wrought iron gates opened up before them. At the peak of the heath, bordered by dense forest and flanked by a desolate graveyard, was a huge house.

She knew he could see the smile on her face, against the petulant moon.

"Welcome," he whispered.

"Call me it again," she ordered softly, her hand reaching up to caress his face.

He turned his mouth into her palm, "Cara mia."

She sighed as the car came to a stop.

The hallway was silent and cool, the only sound her heels on the harlequin tiles. He didn't relinquish his grip on her as he moved towards the grand staircase. They paused then to kiss, as if the slight break in between had starved them both of air, and it was a desperate vow of attraction.

"My bedroom?"

She had expected him to be gentlemanly but not as considerate as he was.

She nodded silently and offered her hand to him. Instead he slid a hand under her back and under her knees and swept her up into his arms.

His bedroom was at the far end of a corridor, behind double doors. There was a roaring fire, already, as if he had been expected. They stood face to face beside the crackling flames. Here he was darkly handsome, perspiration gathering on his forehead – a result of his restraint.

"Once we do this…" she felt herself say, suddenly, without much conviction, "It won't…"

"I can't go on without you," he let his coat fall to the floor, "But you can turn, and go, if you want."

"I don't want to," she slid her shoes off and kicked them delicately aside with her foot.

"I won't force you."

"You won't need to," she stepped forward, so there was no space between them, and her hands went to his bow tie.

 **-0-**

He watched her deft, confident fingers unfurl the tie elegantly and drop it to the floor.

"Do I get to do the same?"

"I don't have a bow tie," she muttered, turning so her back was to him, and sweeping her hair over her shoulder.

"Ahhh, I see," his fingers trembled over the intricate buttons and the first one popped easily under his thumb and forefinger, giving him the confidence he needed.

The rest followed suit, until there was a pearly expanse of back and the satin of a corset in his view. He wanted to weep with sheer joy at the very beauty of it.

"Dios mio," he murmured, a finger ghosting across the hard line of the corset, just under her sharp shoulder blades.

He pulled her neck towards his mouth and slid the sleeves of the dress down her arms, where she wiggled it onto her hips.

"Don't move like that," he pleaded, "At least not yet."

She turned in his arms, "I have that impact on you…mon cher?"

The words were like an explosion at the very front of his brain, blowing his concentration to smithereens.

He gulped like a fish, "What?"

"It's French," she murmured, as if she had no idea what she had done – it did not occur to him, once, that perhaps she didn't -, "It means-"

He growled low in his throat and brought her hand up to his mouth, devouring the skin over her forearm and up to her shoulder and up to her jaw line while she breathed a delighted laugh.

"Oh," he groaned against her jaw, "Oh I know, I know exactly what it means."

 **-0-**

She watched him shed his clothing from the island of his huge bed and then he came towards her, like the predator who had dragged her across the dance floor. When he kneeled on the bed she couldn't resist running her hands over the olive, smooth skin of his hard abdomen and up into the black hair on his chest. Against her hand, his skin was a wonderful contrast which was both jarring and complimentary.

"I have often thought about this," he murmured, his fingers trailing over the tops of her stockings.

"I don't know what that makes us," she drew her mouth down to his, "because I have too."

"No," he whispered against her mouth, "Neither do I. I am afraid, however, that if I don't make you mine I will die. I will become a husk of a man."

"Make love to me."

* * *

 **Finally? Yes. But the end? Certainly not. Please leave a review if you can.**


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Thank you very, very much for the reviews you left. It's not over - by any stretch of the imagination - and the plot doesn't move much over the next two chapters. They're mostly for fun. So I hope you enjoy them.

* * *

The room was warm, and the fire was still strong despite the hours which had passed. He wanted to move, wanted to take some action but the thought of relinquishing her body, her soul, was too much to bear. She rested against his chest, one fine leg tangled with the sheets across his own, her vermillion nails raking gently up and down across his pectoral muscles.

He reached for a cigar, stored in the box on the nightstand, and motioned to it, "Do you mind?"

She shook her head silently and her red lips curved up in that delicious smile he'd just discovered. It was somewhere between a grin and a sneer.

There was no space for words, nothing that hadn't already been whispered between skin and ecstasy.

"Gomez," she whispered, "I need a drink."

He withdrew the cigar from his mouth and blew the smoke out into the hot room, where it disappeared almost instantly. Then he set it on the bedside.

"And what," he slid down, so he was face to face with her and propped up on an elbow, "Would my lady like?"

She considered for a second then reached forward and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was slow, torturous. Then in a moment she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth and bit down on the over-tender flesh. A yelp of pain, and delight, shot through him and made his flesh tremble.

"So you like that?"

He lifted his hand to his mouth and when he withdrew it there was the scarlet stickiness of his own blood trickling over his thumb.

"Do you always test boundaries?"

She smiled and rolled away from him, "I've just started. I'd like anything…wine, water, anything."

He nodded and trailed a hand down her back before pushing the sheets away and climbing out of bed. He reached for his robe on the armoire and slid his feet into his leather house slippers.

"Please don't be gone for…long."

There was not only tenderness in her voice, but vulnerability too. The sudden desire to prove to her she was more than simply a conquest was fearfully strong. He dropped to his knees in front of her, as she lay like Cleopatra on his bed, and took her hands in his.

"I worship you," he vowed, "And you mustn't be afraid of what is ahead of us. With this, with what goes between us, any challenge can be conquered."

She turned her head away and he knew, though it seemed to be something she would not yet admit, that she would come to need him one day as much as he already needed her.

"Morticia, cara mia, my only love," he propelled her face back with his hand gently on her chin, "You must believe me."

"We are damned," she muttered but there was defiance in her words too.

"Then let's be damned together."

It was only when he made it to the wine cellar that the severity of her words seemed to crash onto his shoulders. He felt an iron band of panic wrap around his chest, different from what it had been over the course of the last few weeks. He slid down a wall of fine vintage bottles, pulling the dust from each one, as the revelation came over him again and again.

Thing scuttled down the last stair and ground to a finger-blistering halt in front of him.

"I know I've done it," he answered the pet spitefully, after an entirely rude gesticulation of digit-insults from his friend, "And she is everything I've ever wanted."

Thing shook a disparaging finger.

"That woman will be the mother of my children," he said sternly, lifting himself up, "Even if I have to give up all of this."

Thing shuddered and jumped onto the wine bottle right beside his face.

"I mean it Thing," he slid one of the French vintages out, "I swear it with every inch of my being."

Thing shook with indignation and began to jig up and down. Gomez lifted him, gripped him firmly, and while Thing flailed about said calmly:

"Listen here Thing; I love you very much but you are not to upset her, am I clear? Don't even go near her. She will soon be your new mistress and regardless of what you think of her you ought to learn to hold your tongue, or fingers, as it were."

He dropped Thing gently back onto the wine rack and turned to go.

Having gone via the kitchens he brought two glasses also, and slid the door quietly open. She was set up in the bed, staring into the fire, the sheets not quite draped over her modesty.

"You are breath-taking," he murmured, setting the wine aside, "You have to know."

She touched his cheek, "You really think so?"

He nodded emphatically, ensuring there was no doubt left in her question, and took her hand in his again.

"Will you marry me?"

He could tell, immediately, what her answer would be.

"No," she whispered, "Not when it will break a bargain…and a family. Right now I cannot say yes, as much as I want to."

He nodded, already accepting that he had a lot of work set out before him, innumerable challenges to mount and conquer, before he could claim ownership of her as fully as fate wanted him to.

"You see it isn't that-"

"My love," he whispered, turning to pour the wine, "You needn't explain it. I understand as fully as it can be understood."

She nodded, "I can't make a promise we, neither of us, may be able to keep. The very thought though…" she shook her head, took the wine he offered, "I think I am in love with you."

The earth-shattered around them then, with the vocalisation of it, and he nodded forlornly.

"Yes, I would have to agree. But aren't they such paltry sentiments to describe how we feel?"

The silence stretched out then as they sipped the fine wine and the clock chimed midnight.

"There is a game in my family," he whispered, "It's called Obligacion de Revelar."

She raised a brow, "Full disclosure."

He grinned and crawled towards her, "Indeed. You are very clever."

"I am," she answered, sliding underneath him, "How does one play?"

"Well," he took his wine glass and poured a dribble into the deep recess between her clavicles, "You take a drink for the sacred chalice, tell a secret, something no one knows about you, and it has to be completely honest."

He dipped his mouth to slurp at the claret liquid amidst her luscious groan.

"The truth is I want you, more than I've ever wanted anything. Full disclosure."

He sat back on his knees, great satisfaction at the way she lay undone before him. It made him powerful.

"I suppose we'll have to work out a way to make that happen," she said, recovering, and reached for her own glass to drink.

He watched, disrobing as he did so, as she sipped at the fine vintage. Her lips, despite the endless kissing, hadn't lost their ruby colour.

"I was rude to you because I desired you. Full disclosure."

He grinned, "I deduced as much, you know, from this."

He motioned with a hand to her body, stretched out against the darkness of the sheets.

"Oh," she joined him on her knees too and there was a delicious vengefulness in her words, "You are too confident."

He panicked for a second but then he saw the joy of her act glittering in her eyes.

"And what do you do to boys who grow too confident?"

"I punish _men_ who do it," she clawed her nails roughly across his chest, where welts appeared almost instantly.

"Ah!" He watched them appear with delighted terror, "Ah I see. I might continue doing that then."

She reached across his body for the robe and, until she started pulling the velvet tie from the loops which held it safe, he wasn't sure what she was doing. When he finally deduced her plan he couldn't resist the grin which plastered itself impossibly across his face.

"Top of the bed, mon amour."

"When you speak like that…." He crawled towards the pillows.

"Yes?"

"Well it's a torture all on its own."

She climbed delicately on top of him and wound his hands and the tie and the bed together, until he was wholly incapacitated. She was good with knots, it occurred to him.

"Oh Gomez," she breathed, her mouth teasingly over his abdomen and trailing downwards, "You haven't come close to torture yet."

His cry of delight echoed through the silence of night.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed, and I'd love it if you have time to review.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note:** Thank you, as always, for the really, really lovely reviews. It's truly excellent to know you're enjoying it. If you have time to review this one, then it'd be excellent.

I wanted to indulge in some more gratuitous fun, before picking up the plot to a great extent again. There is some plot development, but not much. I hope you don't mind.

* * *

When she awoke it was past noon – she could tell from the sun streaming between the abandoned drapes – and she rolled over to find no one and nothing in the coldness of the bed. For a second she questioned it but the memories were too fresh and violent to be considered mere fantasy. She heard the noise of running water and looked towards the door at the far end. Steam poured from under it. She sat up and slid from the sheets after a moment. There was a full mirror at the armoire, speckled and aged, and she stood before it. Her hands slid over her own ribs, down to the fingerprints emblazoned on her hips and thighs. They were of a royal-purple, and pressed out evenly into the flesh. Her hands moved back up, onto her neck and across her livid collarbones where he'd devoured the flesh. She might be tender, in more than one visible way, but so would he be.

And she took pride in them, in these marks of possession. There was something holy about them to her mind.

There was something deeper, even, than a vow of matrimony.

She swept his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, buttoning it unevenly. It reached her thighs just, and covered her enough to be deemed acceptable. Then she wandered to the dresser at the far end. She knew, immediately, that this wasn't the master bedroom but it was almost as big. It may have been his childhood room or the one of a teenager and while there were few personal items, there was a small cluster of photographs in filigree frames set out proudly.

One of him and Williamson.

One of him and a rather hairy looking fellow, who looked both swarthy and alien.

One of him and a disembodied hand (he was younger in this but his moustache was just as fulsome).

And one of the four of them.

His parents, she knew immediately, and his brother. His father was a carbon-copy of him, almost identical in stature and bearing and Latino looks. The person who most piqued her interest was his brother though. The squat, balding teenager stared out at her with racoon eyes.

Not handsome by typical standards but she might see why he could be viewed that way.

She scooped up the frame and took it towards the window seat, where she set her legs across the cushion and rested the photo in the slope of her raised thighs. She pulled the drapes aside so there was better light with which to study it. Her study was distracted by the perfect view onto the graveyard though, the early fog swirling gracefully over and around the various stones in different stages of decay. A rotting mausoleum which looked like crumbling chalk. The thick vines which were interwoven across the dirt, dotted bizarrely with golf balls. In the distance and the back of the house there were dense and thick trees, in which she could imagine getting lost for hours.

Across the way, outwith the bounds of his vast land, someone had started to build a white clapboard house. It seemed to ruin the look somewhat.

She turned her eyes back to the photograph, waiting patiently in her lap, and saw it properly in the light.

She had heard, of course, what had happened and, in the spaces between the wonderful moments of their night, more than once she had considered the similarities in what he had done to his brother and what she was doing to her sister.

Or what she was about to do.

Because for her, it was very simple; she was on this ride now and, forsaking all she knew to be morally right, there was no possibility of her disembarking. There would be a collision, at some point down the line, and she would have to walk away from the fiery wreckage, hand in hand with him.

The bathroom door clicked open and he emerged, a towel around his shoulders and striped cotton bottoms strung around his hips.

"Full disclosure?"

He laughed quietly into the peace of the morning.

"Good morning," he towelled his hair so it was rough and on end – it didn't suit him – "Yes, alright."

"Your brother?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment and moved towards the bed where he took a cigar from what she'd learned was the box he kept them in, and struck a match against the post. Immediately it sparked to life. It was incredible how quickly she'd come to associate the smell of cigars with him, with comfort, with peace and excitement all at once.

"Come here, please, Morticia," he motioned to the love seat in the corner of the room.

She did as she was bid, and settled on his knee when he opened his arms to her. She set the photo on the cushion beside his thigh as she awaited his response. She wasn't afraid this would break any unspoken vow or bond, she already knew she had his honesty forever.

"My brother…." He considered her question with the seriousness she'd come to realise she'd only ever saw in these last twenty four hours.

There was such gravity, such genuine desire to please her in his words that she was taken aback.

"I broke his heart," he shrugged, "And I didn't realise I was doing it."

She nodded.

"He had finished with them, with them both, and I didn't realise how torn up he was. They came to me and I, the fool I was, thought it would be fun. A conquest for the billiards room and the yacht club, Siamese twins, you understand? I don't expect you to and that might seem irreverently low to you, and for that I apologise. But what you heard and what happened are two different things."

He paused and pain crept across his brow and into his eyes. His mouth sagged.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"Of course you should have," he touched his forehead to hers, "I will always be honest with you, even if my honesty doesn't commend me to you."

"It does," she whispered passionately, despite knowing she should be appalled, "It truly does."

"He discovered my infidelity, of course," Gomez continued, "And he was demented with pain. He took off in the middle of the night."

She nodded, her silence a token of her willingness to still listen.

"My father was sick anyway…" his voice stuck, "And my mother. They went out to look for him, got caught in the riots with the mob and…my mother survived for a few days."

She could tell there was too much effort in the words for him, too much effort in the memories. She pressed her hand to his cheek and cradled him to her chest.

"Hush my darling."

"You think I am a terrible person? I didn't hate them, any of them, and it was punishment, penance, enough."

She needn't consider his question for more than a second, "Oh Gomez, no. No. It was just a series of events that conspired to seem related. Oh my darling, my love, no."

He wept openly then and it wasn't embarrassing or demeaning. It was refreshing to feel so entirely in tune with someone at their most vulnerable.

 **-0-**

He swept her hair onto her head as she sunk into the old brass bath. It was almost too deep for her but she propped her delicate foot up onto the faucets. The smell of bitter almonds, fragrant in her hair and on her skin, floated to him.

"Does my lady have everything she needs?"

She smiled, "Yes, I do."

"Then I shall have Lurch make us breakfast," he bowed.

"Oh Gomez," she slid further down, "Just tea for me."

"I've never seen you eat," he whispered.

"You probably won't," she smiled.

He turned to go but her voice stopped him.

"Soon, I should, I must go home."

He'd been dreading this, and awaiting it, in equal measure.

"Then what?"

She considered for a moment, her fingers coming to rest across her own shoulders. He wanted to take her again and again in that moment and suddenly an animal, a beast, was inside him.

"You can't go."

She smiled patiently, "I must."

"Then I must see you tomorrow, and the next day, and every other day after that," he nearly slid on the slick tiles as he dashed back to the bath and fell to his knees, "You must swear it to me. I will die without you."

She reached one of her soaking hands out to his cheek to caress the skin there – the delicious habit she'd developed over the course of their perfect night.

"Of course, my love. How else will we plan our future?"

The relief of her words made him pass out almost.

Again he stood and again she stalled him, reaching out the same hand to tug at his.

"If what you did was wrong, what I am doing is worse."

He nodded quietly and left her to her bathing.

When he returned to the room she was freshly dress – or as fresh as he supposed she could be – and perched on the edge of the bed.

When she looked at him there was delight in her eyes at his very presence. It made his heart leap. He set the tray down on the dresser and turned to the door, where he let the lock click shut.

"You are not going anywhere."

"It seems to be that way," she said, moaning in delight as she slid her own dress down her shoulders, trailing her fingers torturously across her own pale skin, "It seems my resolve is rather weak too. Maybe you'll show me a phone, so I might make my excuses."

He tugged the material downward so it felt with a soft rustle to the floor and lifted her towards him and up, so she was able to wrap her legs around his hips. He spun, pushed her against the wall, and knew he needn't ask her permission.

"Only after you let me make love to you…"

"Again?"

He grinned, "Again."

"Alright," she feigned reluctance amidst a laugh, "If I must."

The breakfast lay, forgotten, and by the time she was able to drink just her tea it was frozen cold.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note:** Thank you, thank you, for the review you've taken time to write and create. I am so glad you are enjoying the story.

A return to the plot was in order, after two gratuitous chapters. I hope you enjoy it.

Please keep reviewing, if you'd like, and enjoy it most of all.

* * *

He slid the lock open on the door and pushed his head out into the gap. Lurch stood, silver tray in hand, almost nose to nose with the old wood.

His filmy eyes were mournful as he offered the bottle of wine up.

"Don't look at me like that old man," he hissed, taking the tray from him and stalling the closing door with his foot.

Lurch groaned and shook his head, his neck cracking under the weight.

"Oh don't be so judgmental," he pulled the tray in to the room and let the door fall closed.

"They don't like me."

She said it almost instantly.

He set the tray down on the dresser and turned to look at her. She was pale against the fire. She was already a queen, regal and elegant, in a throne of velvet.

"It isn't that," he said, and he really meant it.

She smiled, but in it there was desolation too.

"It's me," he went towards her, "It's me who is their focus of concern."

She pulled his robe tighter around her body – it was loose and too long but she'd adopted it anyway – and tucked her legs under her. He brushed a hand over her shoulder and settled in the seat across from her, setting out the wine glasses he'd poured just before the hearth. The smile was still there as she turned her face towards his.

"It's me," he continued, "They're worried about me, my inheritance…my reputation."

"Does it worry you?"

He shrugged, "Do you think it's worrying me?"

Her mouth quirked up.

"In private savings alone I could see me….and you, through a thousand winters. And they would be winters lined in fur."

She nodded and was silent for a moment.

"But it isn't just money, is it?" She asked.

He'd realised her cleverness over the last few days, the way she knew intimate details of him that he himself was yet to discover. It extended beyond the physical, much to his delight and discomfort, and she seemed to be able to calculate everything he did before he did it.

He pressed his fingers to his lip, smoothed them over his moustache.

"No, no it's not," he murmured.

"Your name…everyone knows, means everything, everything, to you," a pale hand extended out to motion around the room, "And this, the house of your childhood…they could write you out of this."

He nodded, "But yet…"

She awaited his words, her eyes on the fire always. When he did not speak she turned to look at him.

"Yet?"

"Yet here, with you, it matters less," he answered, "And it will always be my name. And if you would agree, it would be yours."

"I can't," she said simply, without irritation or cruelty, "Because I can't make a promise to you and I can't keep it."

"If I can help you keep it, Morticia, would you?"

She smiled coyly, "Of course."

"Then I will find a way," he whispered emphatically, leaning forward into the light of the fire.

She nodded again, "My sister though…"

The silence of shame descended over them, heavy and stilting in the acrid air of the room.

"Well, there is that," he nodded, settling back.

His resentment was full and wholesome and Ophelia, in the hours he had loved and been loved by her sister, had receded to a villainous side-show, a pestilence to be overcome. In the calm, cool moments following the passion he'd suddenly discovered, she would come to him in her pale fullness, her pink lips jutting out in that effected pout that was so opposite to her sister, and then she would claw at him, drawing spurting blood until he lay at her feet, dead.

Despite how good it sounded, and despite how fantastical it would have been at Morticia's hands, it was contorted into a nightmare when Ophelia was involved.

"Easily forgotten here, and now," she whispered.

He felt a grim smile alight on his own lips, "But not out there."

"No," she answered, "Not out there where you are betrothed to her."

He paused in the quiet, his brain working over.

"How does it make you feel? I mean this, us?"

She considered his question, he could see it in her eyes as she looked in to his.

"Shocked."

He gave her a questioning look.

"What I – what we are doing – is something I never thought I would do," she continued, "And it is a simple as that. Love, loyalty, sorority does not even come in to it. I don't even know how to feel those things when all I feel is shock."

"Is it better, or worse, to feel that way?"

She shook her head, "Well, you are the one to ask."

He laughed darkly, "Touchè."

"Does French work the same way when you use it?"

He laughed, "Sadly, no. It is you, my love. Never has it sounded so…vital."

She stood up slowly and went towards the dresser. He hadn't noticed it lying there before, but when she turned around she was cradling his riding crop between curious fingers. He'd only ever used it for riding the vicious stallion who lived on the edge of the land, but she seemed to have quite alternative ideas. He wasn't even irritated that she seemed to have raided his drawers.

"A distraction?" He murmured, standing slowly and moving towards her.

"An experiment," she slapped the crop gently against her palm.

He grinned and pulled her towards him.

 **-0-**

She had Lurch, with curious eyes which glanced over her in the mirror every few seconds, drive her home. She wasn't riled by it; once she saw those faintly blue, soulful, panicking eyes she realised it was not disgust but concern that motivated him.

"You must trust Mr. Addams," she said as he helped her out a block away from her home, "And you must trust me."

The rumble came from deep within his chest as he nodded his head, though whether it was in agreement she wasn't sure.

She walked slowly, despite the brevity of the distance, but she eventually had to concede to returning home. Confronting her parents was not a concern – she'd been economic with the truth so regularly in her dealings with them - out of pity and respect and the desire to lead a private life – that being duplicitous with them was second nature to her. No, it was her sister; her doleful, orb eyes that pulled you in and spat you out just as quickly. Her flitting rage which she focused on one thing until she burned it to cinders, then moved as swiftly on to the next. Morticia had known her rage, perhaps not in its purest form, and she didn't fancy knowing it any more intimately than she already did.

Of course, her struggle to mount the moral high-ground had crumbled to dust in the back of his limo and now she was complicit in a betrayal so huge that it was unbelievable. And that was what made it easier; it was so simple to deny because it was so simple to ignore out of disbelief.

And so she was in an agony of passion instead, which winded her with its unexpected strength. She couldn't think for blushing, couldn't imagine the cries and murmurs and pants of excitement had come from her own scorched larynx, she couldn't believe that, underneath him, she was as undone as she'd ever been.

She could not believe she was suddenly, irreversibly, desperately in love.

The foyer was quiet, as always, because their old butler couldn't reach to the door in time. She slid in and nearly made it to the top of the stairs before she heard a voice behind her.

"Morticia?"

It was her mother, her silent, older, greyer mother. She loved her like she should but she did not admire her, did not wish to lead the life her mother had. She'd been a victim of arranged marriage and had turned to books and potions and cooking to fill the void that a lack of true love had made in her. It had aged her instantly and now she was a wisp of the woman she'd once been.

She turned on the stair, "Mother?"

"You have been with Carmen, all this time?"

Morticia nodded casually, aware her ability to lie was almost professional. Her mother seemed suspicious though and she started to regret her lack of planning; she'd phoned a day ago to say she'd be staying out and it was as good as that and nothing more.

"You do understand that this doesn't do well for your reputation?"

Her mother was gentle with her question, her crooked fingers ghosting out to reach for her though she was an entire staircase away.

"Mama, I was simply with my friend," she said delicately, the lie already weaving itself into her reality.

Her mother looked at her, "I worry about you Morticia."

She smiled in answer, "There's no need."

"Well, I am not convinced of that," her mother began to climb the stairs as she spoke, "And I've always been good at predicting you."

Morticia nodded and set her hand on the banister, "A mother's job."

"Don't be flippant darling."

She touched her mother's shoulder softly, "Mama, I don't know what you're accusing me of."

Her mother laughed but it was dark and uneven, "Nor do I, I suppose."

"Well mama, how then can I assure you?"

"You can't," her mother laughed then touched her cheek, "And you know me, I worry."

"I do know you," she nodded, "But mama, I don't think you _do_ know me."

"Morticia," her mother followed her down the quiet hall as she moved away, "I don't think anyone does."

She turned to her mother at the door, "Oh I wouldn't go that far."

"See," her mother turned away as she spoke, "It's comments like that which worry me."

She watched her go, the feeling of being exposed unsettling, then turned into the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note:** Thank you, as always, for the excellent reviews. I am so glad you're enjoying this, and reading the reviews helps me hone/ change/ amend/ develop the plot and characters. Thank you.

* * *

He looked up at the house in front of him and then down to the gravel at his feet. Sleepless, desperate nights had made him fearful with the prospect of never sharing her bed again. He'd phoned early in the morning, asking if he could visit, and the delight in Mr. Nightshade's voice wasn't even enough to stymie his desperation to see her again.

The door before him opened and his fiancée smiled and bound out from behind it.

"Gomez!" She flitted down the stairs and pushed herself into his arms, "Gomez it's been too long!"

He tried to muster a smile but now there was something new within him, something dreadfully afraid of having her think for a moment that this was any more than just a contract.

"Only a few days," he bowed over her hand as he set himself back from her.

He felt her body stiffen for a moment, then her airy manner returned instantly, "Well, it felt longer."

She turned and led him in the door. Within her parents stood, her father still proud with the prospect of their marriage, her mother somewhere else entirely. Behind them Morticia rested against the wall, hip and shoulder pressed lazily to it. Oh, envy of a wall indeed! He tried very hard not to pull her to him instantly, desperately.

Instead he addressed Ophelia, "Yes, I know a lot about waiting."

Morticia's subtle little smile was enough to sustain him for a moment longer.

"Come on," Ophelia smiled, "There is so much to plan."

He followed her into the parlour, where tea was set out.

When they settled, and Morticia did not take her leave, he risked a look at her. There was no blush under the modest skin, no telling smile or revealing looks.

"Will you be joining us, Morticia?"

She looked up from underneath her pretty eye lashes and smiled that subtle, deadly little smile that made his heart thunder under his breast plate.

"I wouldn't miss it," she answered.

"Our special day," he nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Oh engagement party first," Ophelia trilled, "It is tomorrow and I've barely been in your house yet…"

"Time for everything Ophelia," he turned back to her, "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Hmmm, yes," hi fiancée smiled but it was tight, "Wait until you see it."

"I can't," he grinned, eyes flitting towards Morticia again.

"Oh Gomez," Ophelia pulled his hand into her lap, "Such excitement! I didn't think you would be so looking forward to it."

He turned and looked at her solemnly, "Any time I get to spend with you…and your family, means the world to me."

Ophelia's glittering smile would have been a satisfaction for any other man but, for him, it just reminded him of all the lies he had to tell in order to get what he truly wanted.

"We were going to invite you to stay for tea but you're nor-"

He turned to her father, "No, no. I should stay. The house is awash with preparations, I only get in Lurch's way and my aunt's. Shouldn't you be over there?"

"Yes," her father nodded and ushering her mother, turned to the door, "To oversee preparations. Ophelia, I rather thought you might like to go too."

Gomez agreed, "Of course Ophelia."

Gomez didn't add that he didn't want to accompany her and that he'd like to stay here, right here, with Morticia.

"Oh no," Ophelia waived an airy hand as she poured the tea, "Oh I am much the same."

She turned a look to Morticia, "And, unlike my little sister, I have readied my outfit."

"I must confess I have been too busy to organise an outfit," he answered gallantly.

"So has Morticia," Ophelia gave a dainty, tinkling little laugh under which there was a needle of cruelty.

He stared into the fire at her words, memories battering him with their very wonder, and did not dare to look into those black, engulfing eyes.

Morticia dipped her head and, detectable only to him, that tiny, faint blush crept up onto her cheekbones. He'd saw it before, when she'd lose control, when she'd cling onto his neck as if for dear life. And here it was, as bold as day, before him.

These last few weeks, the stolen moments and desperate gasps of desire, flooded his mind.

"That is hardly my business," he said kindly, "And giving your sister's secrets away is hardly kind, my dear."

Ophelia seemed crestfallen for a moment but she regained composure almost instantly, "Oh, honeymoons?"

He had been too busy looking at that blush tracking its way down onto Morticia's chest to answer his future wife.

"Huh?"

"Oh Gomez, pay attention," she murmured and then stood up, "Oh honeymoons. Excuse me."

And she flitted from the room, leaving the door ajar as she went.

"I need to see you tonight," he wasted no time in getting what he had come for.

She shook her head silently.

"I could not sleep without you last night," he muttered, reaching across the table to grasp her hand.

She nodded her agreement but said nothing.

"Tish," he said, "I am begging you."

"I cannot, not tonight," she said, her eyes not on his, "I can't do this. I can't do this to her. Gomez this is wrong."

"It has nothing to do with her," he whispered insistently, "With you, without you I couldn't – please Tish…could you sleep, could you feel the longing, the miss?"

She nodded silently.

"Tonight then?"

"I cannot take the-"

"Here!"

The high voice was behind them.

"Brochures!"

She let them flop into his lap; generic Bahamas, cruises, beaches and clear, crystal waters. He shuddered.

"Anything a little more…." He tried to find the word, "Cultured?"

"You mean bizarre," Opehelia countered, "I want a beach."

"Then if it must be a beach, somewhere like Agdam or Wittenoom," he said patiently, "Somewhere truly disastrous."

"Oh no," she ripped the books from his lap and set them on the table, "You are no fun."

"That's an unfair accusation," Morticia finally said, "I mean they sound perfectly romantic to me."

Gomez nodded his head, "Slow down, aren't we supposed to set a date first?"

"A trifle," she shrugged, "Papa says it should be in two months."

His stomach clenched in petrification and he felt Morticia's eyes sharp on his reactions. He nodded.

"A bit soon."

"Nonsense," Ophelia said, "Unless, of course…." she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "You have another woman on the side."

"Don't be ridiculous," Morticia whispered softly, her voice cutting across the conversation, "You're enough woman for any man."

He felt wordless as Morticia took over and skippered them smoothly over the rough, uneven surface of the ocean of accusations they suddenly found themselves in. Or maybe they both just felt it as a barb for them and that was a result of their own filthy consciences.

"Of course," Ophelia giggled, set her hand against his elbow, "My little sister knows me well."

He feigned a grin of agreement, "You are clever like that, Morticia."

She nodded, "I should leave you to your arrangements."

"Please," the words were out of Gomez's mouth before he could stop them, "Stay. Please."

She shook her head, set her empty tea cup on the table, and stood. He watched her go and then turned back to Ophelia, who seemed lost in her honeymoon browsing and hadn't watched him salivate as her sister left the room.

"I think we should get married," she said quietly, setting the magazines aside, "Soon, I mean."

He realised, suddenly, that her words were tremulous and there was a sincerity in them. This revelation in itself was enough to make him blanch, to make his chest tighten with terror. But her eyes, her eyes were sincerely earnest too in their remark.

"I – "

"Oh Gomez," she sighed and took his hand in hers, turning fully to face him so they were almost nose to nose on the couch, "I feel…a kindred spirit in you. Someone who realises the sense in trying to make this work," she giggled lightly, but the underlying coyness was still there, "I'm not saying I love you…"

She left it hanging, and it hung for as long as he refused to say anything, before she started the execution of the idea again.

"It's just," she smiled, "I think we could be happy."

He extracted his hands gently; the last thing he needed right now was this but he had to tread carefully too. Should he be too emphatic in his denial she might turn against him spectacularly, be too keen and he would mislead her.

"I think so too," he said, grasping at anything to tether him to reality.

"You do?"

"I think we could find a way to make it work," he said, attempting to remain as clinical as possible or, at least, as vague as he could be, "It's certainly something to think about."

She smiled and leaned forward, "And maybe we could, you know, spend more time together."

She moved her fingers, rhythmically, like the legs of a spider up the silk of his tie. He resisted the urge to scoot away and instead held fast. He lifted her hands from his chest, where it toyed with one of the buttons there, and pressed it to his lips for a second before dropping it gently back into her own lap.

"Ophelia," he lied softly, "You are going to be my wife. I have to have respect for you. And that simply wouldn't be appropriate. We should wait until the right time."

Her ability to turn on a dime was alarming to say the least. Her eyes grew stormy and she tied her fingers together in a tight little basket on her thighs.

"No one says 'no' to me."

"Hush," he whispered, "It isn't out of lack of interes-"

"Don't lie," she hissed, "I know you have other women."

"Being mutually exclusive," he corrected, "As far as I was aware, was not in our previous contract?"

"Harsh choice of words," she countered, though he saw a blush of recognition falter across her forehead and cheekbones.

"But true?"

"Yes," she conceded, "But, by now, I thought I might win you round."

He nodded his understanding and then said, "You don't know anything about me."

"No," she agreed, "I don't. I don't know how to remedy that."

"Let's face it; if we knew more about each other, I hardly doubt we'd like each other very much at all."

"I suppose so," she shrugged, "But would it kill us to try?"

"Probably," he sat back.

"Are you always this dark?"

"Not always," he answered, "I think we both know this isn't want I want."

"It's what I want."

He felt, for the first time, truly sorry for Ophelia; "I can see that."

On his way out the butler thrust his hat into his hand and sent him, gruntingly, on his way. It was only when he was back in the car he realised something felt funny with the fedora and he slid it off as a note fluttered from within. He unfurled it, his heart beating a thrusting drum from out of his chest, and read the spidery, delicate scrawl.

 _Tonight._

Now, he thought to himself as he tucked it in the breast pocket of his coat, that was a promise in only one word. There was something desperate about all this, pathetic almost; the urgency with which his desire to be with her propelled him.

 **-0-**

She was beautiful, he thought, truly beautiful in a way he'd never known, as she climbed the stairs towards him. She exited the car in a nervy manner – afraid, he understood, because of the openness of the setting. Her eyes darted from side to side, and she pulled the fur stole more protectively around her shoulders.

He held out his hand at the top of the stairs.

"Well, this is an odd choice…"

"You like music," he stated, sliding his white silk scarf from his neck as they came into the lobby.

"Yes, I do. How did you know?"

"Isn't it odd," he leaned towards her as he propelled her through the doors of the opera house, "That I just know you."

She turned her mouth towards his jawline, "Disconcerting."

He nodded at the front of house manager, who smiled a questioning smile and motioned them towards the curtains.

"Connections?"

"I own a private box," he answered, holding back the thick velvet material.

He watched as she looked around the plushness of the setting, out and across the entire house and the unparalleled view of the stage and audience.

"It's…" she smiled fiendishly, "Acceptable. I didn't mean the private box anyway. I meant the Front of House Manager; he knows you."

He reached out his hands to slide her stole from her shoulders, setting the heavy garment aside and then returning his hands to the sharp angles of her shoulders. It had been two days since he'd touched her and he felt starved, under-nourished, from the fast they'd endured. She leant back into his embrace and he felt her body soften in his hands.

"I don't usually bring…anyone," he whispered after a moment, his mouth ghosting over her jaw line, "He was surprised to see you with me."

"Women?"

The tone was not jealousy, it was curiosity that drove her to know how much now she was knotted into his world, and he knew that. He motioned to the seat, drew it out so she might slide into it. She did, gracefully, and he watched her closely because he could not resist.

"Anyone, actually," he answered, lifting the champagne bottle from the rattling, dew-coated ice bucket in the left of the box. He thumbed the cork till it popped gently, then poured two glasses.

He handed her one, "It's sacred to me. I've never brought anyone. No one. You're the first person to ever accompany me."

She nodded, examined the contents of the glass for a moment, and then smiled that smile she seemed only to make when he'd pleased her particularly. He was over-full on her now, though too much would certainly never be enough.

"What are we seeing or rather, hearing?"

"New York Philharmonic…Rachmaninoff," he answered, passing her the programme.

She examined it for a second, "Thank you for inviting me."

"Were you alarmed when the driver brought you here?"

"No," she turned to him, "I trust you."

"But?"

She smiled ruefully, "This is very public."

"The lights go down, the music comes up and I get to sit beside you in one of my most favourite places on earth. It's entirely private."

She considered his response, "And if anyone sees us?"

"They see us," he shook his head as the lights began to dim, "And we get what we want anyway."

He slid nearer her, their chairs pressed together, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"It has to stop…or end somewhere," she whispered under the first bars of booming music.

"At the end of an aisle."

It was a confident statement as it left his mouth.

"Gomez, we cannot be seen," she whispered, "I really mean it. I don't want to hurt my parents."

"Morticia, one day you will have to give in to the inevitable."

There was a tiny pause, then she said, "I'm in love with you."

He kissed her forehead, "I know."

 **-0-**

She'd thought, once, checking into a hotel seemed a cheap thing to do. Perhaps under any circumstances apart from these it would have been. But now she simply couldn't wait to do something so cheap and miserable.

"They won't have me in the Plaza," he explained as the car drove past the glittering hotel on the edge of the park, "I trashed the presidential suite once. So the Ritz it is. It's hardly homely, but it'll do."

She raised a brow, "It's not as if you have sleeping in mind."

His hand slid onto her thigh and, then further up as it bunched her skirt back to her pelvis. Hand in place, he scooted forward to press the partition button up as her head fell back in a gasp of pleasure.

He knew his smile was one of triumph but he simply couldn't help it as she tightened her thighs around his hand.

"As if you had sleeping in mind either Tish."

* * *

If you have time, a review would be brilliant. If not, thank you so much for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note:** As always, thank you for your continued support. It always encourages my writing. Please let me know if you think the characterisation is accurate, or the plot seems thin. I like to know these things. If you don't have time to do that, thanks for reading and - hopefully - enjoying.

* * *

They lay in the huge, unfamiliar bed that had groaned under an ecstasy of desperate passion only minutes before. It was uncomfortable perhaps, but they'd fallen against each other like this in the moments after, and the thought of her moving seemed as painful as it did probable. She lay, her back pressed to his chest, the sheets pushed carelessly to the bottom, his legs spread wide and hers in between. Where his breathing had still to steady, hers was already whisper-quiet.

"Full disclosure?"

He grinned against the sticky yet still-cool skin of her shoulder.

"I suppose…"

She did not move and her voice floated towards the ceiling instead of towards him.

"My sister?"

He didn't know whether or not he should tread carefully.

"She's falling for you," she suddenly said, not giving him time to answer, "You know. I think you know. You must. Ophelia is hardly…subtle."

He nodded in agreement, his hands dragging over her hips and up to her ribs and back down again. When he was with her his hands calmed to these sort of caresses. He didn't feel the needs to be constantly in motion. She brought him a calm which couldn't even be shattered by mention of Ophelia.

"Yes, I do know," he said softly, "But I don't feel-"

"I know that," she answered, "But you underestimate her. She is a formidable foe."

"I don't," he answered, "What you're mistaking for underestimation is the strength of my conviction. I do not love her...but you, I am enslaved to you. Love is nothing compared to how I feel about you. Love is a pale emotion when I think about you."

He could practically see her feline grin, despite the fact he couldn't see her face.

"You are a charmer," she said softly, then rolled off of him.

He held out his arm so she could lie against his chest.

"Maybe I am not making my point clear," she continued, "Ophelia wants you. And when she wants something, she gets it."

"And you're not understanding mine," he tilted her chin up and placed a gentle kiss on her lips, "That I am as equally ferocious as your sister, and I want you."

"What we're doing," she sat up and placed her hands on either side of his body and her hair slid over her shoulder and landed weightily on his abdomen, "Is wrong. I do not know if I can continue to do this. Yet, here I am."

"Yet here you are," he nodded, feeling untethered by the panic in her eyes.

"Yet here I am…" she conceded, "But is this it, forever? Do you marry her and I am your-"

"I won't have you as a mistress," he interrupted gently, "You are so much more than an inamorata. I want you as my wife."

"Oh I know that," she laughed, "But I think it should be me who makes that decision. And if we were to examine what we're doing right now, I am not quite so far away from being your inamorata, Gomez."

He nodded in concession, "Then we shall tell them. Disappear for a few months to let the dust settle. Let's tell them Mortica."

She sat back a little, sliding away from him into a more comfortable position. He folded his hands behind his head to prop them up a little, so he could see her as she answered.

"It isn't as easy as all that. I can't simply waltz in and break her – their – heart."

"Morticia," he said plainly, "They'll still have the marriage they wanted. You know that. You're being frightened for nothing."

She was silent for a second, "You have to see how it will hurt them. It's not nothing."

"Not as much as it will hurt when I disappear a day before the wedding," he reached for the cigars set on the bedside table and chose one.

"You weren't considering that?"

He struck up a match and, lighting it, took a calming draw on the cigar. He watched her watch him and biting it between his teeth, he smiled despite his mild frustration at her determination.

"Yes," he nodded, "I was. Very much. I won't marry her. I don't want to. And I was going to abduct you and take you with me."

"She'll be devastated."

He tried not to lose his patience with her, because he felt the same stinging misery in the face of such betrayal once, and he empathised with her. But it was hard to give her what she wanted, when what she wanted was so similar yet so different to him. He knew, sensibly, that there was wrong in what they were doing but to keep it secret for longer than it needed to be seemed, only to him, to amplify the deception.

"Morticia I know. However, in the long run it's better. One day, she will have to know about us. Unless there is no us," he said seriously, "In which case my life is no longer of any worth and she will be a widow before she is a wife. If I cannot marry you, if I cannot acknowledge you publicly, I will never be truly happy. And I will be dead."

She nodded and lay down beside him, silent in her contemplation. He waited out her reflection, because he knew she'd answer eventually.

"Okay, I understand. Just not right now, not yet. Give me time, please."

He placed his hand over his heart, relief loosening his blood to flow again, "I swear it to you."

 **-0-**

He set down at the bottom of the bed, she lay at the top, languid and relaxed. She was beautiful like this; in his shirt, her hair pushed away from her face, her lipstick faded to ruby lips.

"You're beautiful," he said, sliding his own piece across the chessboard (she'd said she loved it, so he had the concierge send out for a set on which she was now roundly thrashing him), "Even in my shirt."

"Is that because I am beating you?" Her fingers fluttered over a pawn, then moved to a knight.

He'd hoped she wouldn't see that move, but he'd already learned she was five steps ahead of him, at least, at all times – and not just in chess.

"I played this, against myself, all the time when I was little," she finished her move and said this over his groan of defeat, "When I was a child, no one would play with me. Thus I mastered all sides of the game."

He examined the board, "No? Fester and I, we played all the time."

"Did you enjoy your childhood?"

He nodded, "I don't think it could have been more perfect. It was idyllic. At times, my parents' marriage was cold, but apart from that… I don't ever want my own children to witness that."

"You want children?"

He nodded and made the move that would seal his fate, "Yes."

"I didn't think I did," she knocked over his king with hers, "Until I met you."

He grinned and pulled her towards him, letting the chess board fall to the floor and the pieces scatter everywhere.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note:** Thank you for your wonderful reviews. This was, far and away, my most favourite chapter to write. I hope you enjoy it. If you have time, I'd be really grateful if you could write a review but if not then please enjoy it anyway.

* * *

Having only parted from him the evening before, it was bizarre to be journeying to his house and pretending she'd never seen it while missing him as if she'd not been in his arms hours before. Ophelia was giddy with excitement, her new dress laid carefully out against the seat of the car with warning to all riding that it was not to be crushed. Morticia squeezed herself against the window, making herself as slight as possible.

"It needs work," Ophelia finally murmured, eyes on the house, as the car snaked up behind the others round the ring road of gravel.

Morticia pretended to observe, while feeling hotly offended, "No, I think it's perfect."

"It's crumbling."

Morticia sighed, "It has character."

Ophelia eyed her sharply, and she felt her mother's eyes on her too, "What is wrong with you tonight? You seem so…contrary."

"Ophelia," she turned to her sister, "This is your night. Let's not disagree."

Ophelia was soothed by this and turned to her mother, "He won't surely want to have the wedding here."

"They've always been a little…eccentric," her mother said diplomatically, "But there's something charming about that, in old money, anyway."

"I hope he won't mind extensive renovations when I'm Mrs. Addams," Ophelia grinned.

Morticia tried very hard to bite her tongue, but she couldn't.

"Maybe if you didn't try to alter his entire life, he might take more kindly to you."

It was out before she could stop the cataclysm of words from being fully realised. Her mother turned to her with a startled expression.

"Oh you are foul tonight," Ophelia snapped, throwing open the car door as they drew level with the large entrance, "You miserable little drip."

Morticia rolled her eyes and climbed out behind her. Her mother pulled her back though, made her stop before she climbed the stairs to the house.

"What has gotten in to you, Morticia?"

It was not accusing but concerned, when her mother asked.

"Mama," she sighed, "He is a good man and she is…"

"There's more to this," her mother said softly.

"No, no there is not," she looked her mother dead in the eye, the lie always easier than the truth, "But she has a husband who might care for her, one day, if she weren't so disagreeable."

Her father came to her side then, quiet as always.

"Are you bemoaning arranged marriage again?"

She gave him a cold glare, "No. I am not."

"Don't irritate her," her mother warned her father, "Just go inside."

Her father nodded and headed in, leaving them at the top of the stairs.

"Morticia, you seem so….distant these days," her mother whispered.

"Oh mama, you wouldn't understand."

"You could try me," her mama suggested, moving them past a crowd who were heading into the already heaving house.

"No, trust me, you wouldn't be able to understand."

Her mother nodded and guided her inside, where the lobby was fit to burst. It was different from before, the chandeliers had been lowered and lit so they glittered and illuminated the entire room. He was standing at the top of the stairs, in a group of his friends, and she found him instantly amongst the guests. He looked so very, very handsome in his full tails, a bloomless thorny stem slid delicately into his button hole in a gesture which made her breathless with both panic and ardour. Her sister was beside him, muttering into his ear, but his eyes stayed almost always on Morticia as her parents floated amongst the guests on their way towards the ballroom.

"Hello my love," a voice behind her said.

She turned to Carmen and kissed her cheeks airily.

"When my sister realises you're here…"

"She sent me an invitation, or maybe Mr. Addams did, I don't know," her friend slid her arm through Morticia's and guided her away, "But I am not crashing. I was invited."

It could not have been Ophelia, so it had to be Gomez who'd invited her. She felt a surge of gratitude at his thoughtfulness, his desire to make her night more bearable and thus including a companion.

Morticia knew what was coming as Carmen led her into the throng, since she'd not spoken to her friend since he'd dragged her away that night.

"Where did you go?"

Carmen asked, leading her towards the far end of the ballroom.

She saw him look at her as they passed, but he didn't stop to say hello. He was in the middle of a group of men, with Ophelia flittering about the outside like an ailing butterfly, and seemed to be telling a joke. They were listening with a sort of awe, reserved only for the finest of storytellers.

"I was tired," she answered, "I went home."

"You're lying," Carmen accused, taking two champagnes from a passing tray.

"Yes, I am," Morticia answered, knowing any more lies were futile.

"Was he good?"

"I can't describe…"

She didn't want to, was probably more accurate. There was something, she felt though she couldn't explain why, that had to remain a secret only between them and that even her dearest friend could not be privy to.

"Shame he's going to be your brother-in-law soon," her friend leaned in to her, "Your filthy little secret is safe with me."

"It's not…." She stumbled over her own words, "It isn't what you think."

Carmen smiled with malicious delight, "Oh it's exactly what I think. You know my advice."

She looked at her friend, "Give a man your time, your money, even your body but don't give him-"

"Your heart," Carmen finished for her, downing the last of her glass where Morticia's was barely touched.

Before she could refute her friend's callous wisdom, her sister spoke.

"Carmen," Ophelia's voice was behind them, "I didn't realise you were coming."

They turned to face a small collective of people, including Gomez. He bowed over Carmen's hand first, his lips briefly on the skin, then over Morticia's, where it felt scrupulously longer. She felt her heart climbing over her collarbones at his daring.

"I invited Carmen, Ophelia," Gomez said gallantly, "Her and I, we go back. Don't we Carmen?"

Carmen smiled deliciously, despite the fact all of the informed party knew not one part of it was true and that theirs was not an acquaintance which merited an invitation. Ophelia's eyes narrowed suspiciously on Carmen's smile, before she turned to Gomez.

"I didn't realise," Ophelia said lightly, examining her nails, then looking pointedly at Carmen, "Though hardly surprising. You go way back with everyone."

Carmen spluttered a laugh into her glass as the atmosphere grew icy and the men in the company affronted. The man she knew to be Williamson stepped forward, his eyes ghosting over Morticia for a second before he bowed over Carmen's hand.

"My dear."

"Williamson!" Carmen flung her arms around his neck and peppered his face with kisses.

Over the show, solely for Ophelia's benefit, Gomez caught Morticia's eye and smiled an amused smile.

"Morticia," he spoke this time, "Let me introduce you to my friends. This is Williamson," he pointed at his friend's head as he remained in Carmen's embrace, "My cousin Itt, my cousin Baz, our college chum Mendelssohn, and the other college friends Crooks and Schroeder."

She nodded to each in turn as they were introduced. At the finish, Baz stumbled forward towards her. Gomez reached out a casual hand against his cousin's chest to hold him back but Baz pushed him away, a little roughly too.

"Balthazar Addams," he smiled, "A pleasure, Morticia. A genuine pleasure."

She smiled gently but felt his confidence as a threat, "Thank you."

Ophelia, silent until now, said sourly, "My goodness, you two seem to be attracting all the gentlemen tonight. Thank the lord Gomez is taken."

At this Ophelia's hands went to Gomez's chest and her pale little nails dug in. Williamson's eyes fluttered to Morticia's and he looked at her darkly, the bleak accusation clear in his glare. She simply looked back, refusing to be cowed by his friend.

It occurred to her, already, how awful this party was and it was barely an hour in. She reached out in the awkward silence of the group to take a champagne glass from one of the constantly rotating trays. At least Gomez knew how to keep his guests well-oiled.

"We should dance Gomez," Ophelia eventually said, "We should definitely dance."

"Not really my thi-"

"Come on," she whispered, "I want to."

He nodded his concession and turned to go with Ophelia, and Williamson asked Carmen, as Balthazar offered his hand.

"Morticia, may I have the honour?"

"Oh I –"

"Please," he stood up a little straighter, "I insist."

Despite not wanting to, she took his offered hand and let him lead her to the dance floor. Amongst the swirling bodies she caught Gomez's eyes time and time again. Balthazar drooled foolishly in her ear, compliments and suggestions, yet she heard nothing. Gomez held her sister at length, their bodies distant even in the most intimate embrace. She tried not to feel abandoned, to feel the very real envy that was fermenting in her gut.

"Morticia," Baz stepped back and bowed unsteadily, "Might I take you for dinner? You must let me. We would be perfect."

"Oh, I…" she smiled, curtsied and felt suddenly flustered, "I am really not looking to find anyone just now."

"Oh," he stumbled back a little, though his eyes and face were shot through with a subtle rage.

"Excuse me," she turned to go and headed for the terrace on the other side of the ballroom.

She felt unbearably warm suddenly, jealousy coursing through her despite knowing that she had nothing to envy. Knowing and feeling, though, were two entirely different things. She braced herself against the balustrade and curled her fingers in against her palms. The night was cool, and the graveyard was set against a starry sky. She felt calm move over her, heavy and soothing.

"Morticia," suddenly there were rough hands against her hips, grasping her and pressing against her so she was jammed between the stone and the body behind her.

She felt her own elbow fly out against the hard chest behind and the figure withdraw only to push against her again. He was unbearably close and she felt suddenly suffocated.

"Excuse me!"

The stink of hot, stale booze clouded her as the person gripped her by the elbows and turned her round. She was confronted by the face of Baz, eyes lecherous and wide and his mouth slack in expectation.

"Come on, you can't dance with a man like that and then-"

"I can dance however I please," she pushed him away but he sprung back instantly, his grip impossibly strong as one of his hands fumbled with the tight material of her dress, "Take your hands off of me."

"I don't think that's what you-"

"I damn well do!" She snarled.

"I think you should do what the lady asks," Gomez said from behind him suddenly, casually, his fingers wrapped round a cigar, "She's not the kind of girl I'd try to take advantage of…she'll eat you for breakfast Baz."

Baz turned, his fingers still gripping her wrists. She couldn't possibly look at Gomez, her embarrassment was so full, yet she was glad he was here. Not because she needed his protection but because she welcomed it.

"God Gomez," Balthazar hissed, "We were fine as we were. Morticia here was just showing me what a good girl should do. Go away."

Gomez's face was suddenly furious, as if all the energy he'd been using to appear nonchalant was suddenly drained from him. He stepped forward and thrust a hand out onto his cousin's shoulder, catching him off balance so he shuddered back and his hands came loose of her wrist.

"Go, you imbecile," Gomez pushed him away, "Before I do something I truly regret."

Baz stumbled backwards, then lurched forward and fell into her. She slid away quickly, so he tumbled towards the balustrade. Gomez stepped forward, gripped the back of his cousin's dinner jacket, and threw him aside where he stumbled to the hard stone before springing on to his feet again.

As he skulked away towards the gardens Gomez turned to her, his eyes full of concern.

"I know you are okay," he said softly, "But I –"

"I am fine," she looked him straight in the eye, "I really am."

"He's an imbecile, an inappropriate imbecile," he said, stepping forward.

"I know," she nodded, pulling her sleeve back to examine her wrist.

There were pinkish bands blooming where Balthazar's fingers had been. Fury scaled her spine as she shook the sleeve back into place.

His eyes were dark when she looked into them and they had changed from irritated to furious, "He marked you."

She nodded and she knew her disgust was clear on her face, "And he had no right."

"I'll disembowel him," he murmured through gritted teeth, "I will make him-"

He turned to go but she reached out a hand, fearing being without him in that moment, "Gomez don't, I need you."

He turned suddenly and swept her into his arms.

"I will never let anyone hurt you, ever."

His mouth was hot on her, demanding as it sought reassurance.

"Not here," she whispered, "Not here. Your bedroom?"

He grinned against her chin, "Library. My bedroom is too…obvious. It's been too long."

She wrapped her fingers in his and smiled, "A day."

"Still too long."

He stepped away suddenly, bowed with a grin, and turned to go.

She settled back on the balustrade and watched him go, knowing her decisions of the last few weeks were amongst her most spectacularly terrible yet with an excitement unparalleled coursing through her too. She ignored the burning, surging guilt at her own thoughts, composed herself, and waited until it was sensible to re-enter.

 **-0-**

He pulled his collar away from his throat, feeling the heat of the encounter, and the anger at his dearest cousin's cretinous, inappropriate behaviour. Stepping forward into the crowd, determined to be in the library soon, he was stalled by a hand on his shoulder.

"Williamson," he tried his best to seem composed.

"Did I just see you rowing with Baz?"

Gomez nodded, "I suppose you did. He skulked off though."

Williamson looked puzzled, "Over what?"

"Really, my friend," Gomez shrugged, "Nothing."

"Was that Morticia?"

"No," he said soundly, "Have you seen my fiancée?"

"She's dancing," WIllaimson motioned to the middle of the floor.

"Well excuse me," he bowed at his friend and turned to go but he could feel Williamson's curious eyes on him all the while.

He did not head for Ophelia, of course, but slid in the door which led to the kitchens and through which the servers were coming on a conveyor belt of champagne and canapes. He'd grown up in this house, and he knew it intimately, and it took him only five minutes between ballroom and library, without being seen, to get there. He pulled the leaver on the bookcase as he reached the top of a slippery stone staircase. She was already perched against his desk as he emerged from the hidden passage.

"Full of secrets," she whispered as he strode towards her, already opening his arms.

She fell into them, and then into his indulgent embrace too. Inelegant, urgent hands pushed the contents of the desk to the floor, pencils and neat paperwork scattering everywhere as he settled her atop the fine oak wood.

"I can't cope with this anymore," he stammered as her fingers pulled his own shirt from his waistband, "We need to-"

She stalled his words, her lips covering his. He felt helpless then, trapped in a moment where desire would always win over sensibility.

"I know," she murmured against his jaw as she helped him push her skirt up over her own legs, "I know. But right now, I need you, mon cher. Talk later."

He watched as she pushed her own underwear tantalisingly aside, his eyes flittering between stockings and panties.

He felt the growl in his throat rumble to a cry as he leaned forward and joined with her. He watched in wonder as she fell back, glorious in her undoing, and arched out against the desk. He slid his hands up to the sides of her head, leaned forward more as she whimpered in pleasure.

"Gomez," it was almost inaudible through her bitten lip, "Harder."

He grinned, roared, and set his lips against her pale neck and his hips apace with her demands. She slid her legs around his waist and pushed herself further off the desk.

"Morticia, Morticia," he hummed against her neck, his hands shooting out to lock with hers, "No other man's. Mine. Only mine."

"Gomez I am near-"

Suddenly the door behind them, the one which led out to the main hall, creaked open and footsteps followed a second later. Immediately her eyes grew large in alarm and he pulled her up, trying to slide her skirt down her legs as he did so.

"Don't mind me."

Misery filled his gut at the voice of his friend. He pulled his zip and button closed before he turned. He spun on the spot though, so she was shielded behind him. Williamson had pushed the door closed, and was standing with his back to it.

"So this was what Baz was trying to do," Williamson said, "Turns out you were already doing it. Not that I didn't already know, but…"

Behind him she made a little huff of indignation.

"I had thought as much," his friend sighed, "But here's the proof. Morticia, you're almost as much a fool as my friend here."

"You're being crass," Gomez accused half-heartedly, stuffing his shirt into his waistband, but remaining in front of her to shield her from Williamson's glare.

"Gomez, I don't care what you both are doing. In fact I'm happy for you because you're clearly obsessed with her but that aside…" he muttered, "I'd get dressed. There's a problem."

Gomez raised a questioning brow.

"I would hate…" Williamson turned his face away towards the fire, "Morticia, I am sorry I had to interrupt. I feel truly grotesque doing this."

Gomez took this as his cue, turning on his heels to help her from the desk. She slid gracefully down, and moved with him towards the fire place where Williamson stood nervously.

"Morticia," Williamson nodded at her, "Gomez, Baz is dead."

He felt the bottom fall out of the worries he'd previously had. They seemed paltry now compared to this news.

"What?"

"He's dead," he murmured, "Below the terrace. And the last person he was with…"

He looked pointedly at both of them.

"Hm," Morticia made a little noise, "Well that's unexpected."

Gomez, hands shaking, poured three glasses from the decanter. Trust Baz, dying just as thing were coming together.

"You better make yourself present," Williamson suddenly said, "Your aunts are prostrate with grief out there."

"How did he die?"

Morticia asked.

Williamson took the glass, "I don't know. What I do know…." he gulped the drink down, "Both of you are at an impasse of incredible proportions."

"But it was you who saw us last," Gomez murmured, "You know I didn't do it."

"Oh I know that…" he lowered his voice, "But on the other side of that door is her –" he pointed to Morticia, who flinched at his tone, "Stupid sister, who is telling everyone you followed him to the terrace. Which is true. And if I am your alibi, then I have to tell them about…" he motioned with a hand to Morticia, "And if this creature here is your alibi, well you're both in a lot of trouble."

Gomez groaned.

"How typical of Ophelia," she whispered, "She loves drama…or it's more than that."

They both looked at her, then Gomez understood clearly what she meant.

"You think she knows?"

She lifted her shoulders and shrugged, "Or she suspects."

He nodded then whispered, "Thing."

Two second later the door opened and the hand scurried in.

"Take Miss Nightshade through the house," Gomez commanded the pet, "And back into the ballroom."

"But I-"

He touched her cheek, "I'm seasoned at this. I've been accused of murder more times than even you will enjoy," he dropped to kiss her hand then, "Trust me, darling."

She nodded and let Thing take her by the hand to go, but she turned just at the bookcase.

"William?"

His friend looked up.

"Thank you."

Williamson shrugged, "I've never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you Mortica…" he frowned, "It's tragic."

She smiled quietly and followed Thing from the room.

He turned to Williamson.

"Thank goodness I'm a good lawyer."

Williamson nodded, "This lie is going to cost you dear."

He smiled, "She's worth it."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you can.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note:**

Thank you so much for your reviews. I am so glad you're enjoying it. This is short, but I like it this way. I hope you do too. Please review if you have time.

* * *

"Can you believe it?"

Ophelia seemed to be enjoying this much more than she should have been under the circumstances. Ophelia pulled her breakfast chair out and reached for some toast. Morticia couldn't bear the prospect of eating and merely pushed the food on her plate from one end to the other. Not that the suggestion he had murdered was not attractive – it wasn't that she'd suddenly gained a conscience and found the concept repulsive – but that he'd been accused of something he hadn't done. Morticia despised injustice in all its guises.

"Dead, right on the terrace. His cousin!"

Their mother huffed, "Ophelia, your intended is in custody on _your_ evidence."

"I would never lie," she said gently.

"Ha," Morticia mouthed bitterly.

"What could you mean by that little sister?"

"I just mean you lie, more than you'll ever admit,"Morticia said softly.

"I suppose so," her sister looked at her pointedly, "But even you must have seen that he was the last person to see him. I couldn't well lie to the law. He was the last person."

"I was in the powder room."

Ophelia's eyes tightened, "Of course you were."

"Ladies," her father put his paper aside, "This animosity is as sudden as it is unexpected. Perhaps we could try-"

"Father," Morticia said suddenly, "I am simply tired. May I be excused?"

"No, you may not."

"Always running," Ophelia said lightly, into a prolonged silence.

"So how will the wedding be affected?"

Their mother was trying her damndest to make conversation that was light.

"Oh he's a lawyer," Ophelia said flippantly, "He'll get himself out."

"You hope," Morticia muttered, "Otherwise your plans are very much scuppered."

The silence descended again and it did not lift until Morticia finally had the nerve to stand and leave anyway.

 **-0-**

He pulled at his grubby cuff, wrestling it down his arm.

"Do you want some water?"

He shook his head, "No but I could murder some wine."

The detective shook his head.

"Mr. Addams, your personal records show, not even counting your business assets and all those hidden Caymen Island accounts and Swiss rat-holes you're running," he slid the records towards him, "That you can afford your bail with quite a substantial amount to spare. In fact, it wouldn't even dent your bank account. I don't understand…"

"It's more fun like this," he shrugged, "Though some fresh linens wouldn't go amiss."

The detective shook his head, "Not until I get the truth."

"I've given you the truth," Gomez sat back, "I had an argument with him, we tussled about a bit, I pushed him to the floor and went back inside. I didn't jab a knife between his ribs, some other clever soul did that."

"But you hated him?"

"I didn't always like his behaviour."

"But you were close?"

"Yes."

"So why the sudden differences in opinion?"

She flashed through his mind, her smile perfect and calm.

"He was impolite," he crossed his arms.

"And that's a good reason to be dead?"

"As good as any," he examined his nails, he couldn't abide dirt under them, "I won't say that I'm not jealous of him. Listen," he leaned forward, "You've no evidence to convict me, aside from the anecdotal evidence of my would-be wife – who's hardly the sharpest rapier in the armoury - , and the contradictory evidence of my friend. Not a finger print, not a hair, not a murder weapon. Not even a decent motive. You can't charge and your poor interrogation skills are entertaining at best and irritating at worst," he looked at his wrist, remembered they'd taken his vintage Rolex, and then rolled his eyes towards the wall-clock, "You have another ten hours to charge me or let me go. I am going to plump for the second."

The detective scraped his chair back and stood.

"Or you could admit to it. We do have that…," he shuddered to a pause, "Dungeon we found. Plenty of weapons in there."

Gomez laughed, "Detective, if I had _done_ it I'd wear it proudly as a badge," he nodded, "But I didn't murder my cousin. I truly didn't. And I have no idea how I might convince you. And those aren't weapons, those are collector's items. The only blood you'll find on them is my own… and maybe some game ladies'."

The detective nodded and made to go.

"Can I see my lawyer now?"

"You're your own lawyer."

He laughed loudly, "Ah I forgot."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note:** thank you so very much for all the reviews. I've never, ever had more than 100 reviews for an Addams Family story, so I was totally pleased. I hope yu enjoy this as much as the others, and please review if you can. If not, I just hope it is to your liking.

* * *

"I thought I might find you here," she murmured, watching as he scanned the book shelves.

"Your paramour," Williamson chose a heavy book and set it on the desk, "Is the expert in criminal law. And he's otherwise occupied right now, downtown. I know contracts and litigation and civil…" he sighed, "But this? I'm going to take these to him in the hope he can make more sense of them than I can."

She watched as he flicked the statues book open. She'd driven past this corner of the financial district enough times to know these were the offices from which Gomez ran his shadier business deals, but she'd never visited them until now.

"I will take them," she said quietly, "But ideally I would like you to come with me."

He laughed darkly, "Oh no you won't."

"I-"

"Listen, Morticia," he set the book on a pile of books awaiting transportation, then looked at her, "He is my oldest friend, and he's asked that I ensure I keep you away from the situation or, more accurately, he has threatened me on pain of death that I keep you safe. He knows you don't want to talk about it and if you do…it ends up out there as fodder for lots of hungry tongues. You end up ruined and he does too."

"Or he rots in jail for a crime he didn't commit," she whispered, "And as dreamy as that is, and as much as I love him, he doesn't make my decisions for me."

"The fiercely independent type?"

She shook her head, "The fiercely loyal type."

"Fiercely stupid," he said, "You have, according to him, been vociferous about secrecy and keeping your…whatever it is…quiet, but now…"

"Now my hand is being forced."

She tipped her head to the side and watched as he began packing the books into a holdall.

"Are you angry at me?"

"No," he shook his head, "Bemused. You're the only woman who's ever bewitched Gomez Addams. That, in itself, is something."

She nodded silently.

"Not that you're _not_ bewitching, Morticia," he shrugged, "But it's normally worn off by now. He's not bored of you…and I don't think he ever will be."

"I hope not."

"Me too."

"With, or more likely without, you," she continued, "I will be giving a statement. I would like your help."

"He'll never forgive me."

"I'll ensure he does," she said gently.

"There's not one part of me that doubts you have power like that," he murmured then sighed, "I suppose it'll make it easier than carrying a holdall of books. I guess I'll just take his fresh clothes."

She smiled and nodded.

 **-0-**

"You are free to go."

He hadn't bothered turning to the door – mainly because he was cuffed to the table – but he hadn't imagined it would be very exciting or different from every other time the door had opened.

"I am?"

He smiled, rattling the cuffs against the restraint bolt on the desk. The detective circled round him.

"Your fiancée's _sister_ ," the detective gave a low whistle, "And I thought you had good manners. You're still a suspect but we'll be looking…elsewhere, since it appears you were otherwise occupied. Your future sister-in-law as well…I thought you had more class than that."

His blood ran icy, then instantly boiling.

"Don't cast aspersions about things you don't understand," he massaged his wrists, "Your restraints are puerile. No pain in them at all."

"That's not what they're for," the detective handed him his personal affects.

He looked at the woefully crumpled tux jacket, the velvet bow tie, and groaned.

"You could have sent out for dry cleaning at least?"

He shrugged the jacket on over the detective's exasperated sigh. He fished in his pocket, withdrew a cigar, and slid it in the other man's top pocket.

"For your troubles. Good luck with the case," he said genially, "Anything you need let me know."

He patted his chest neatly and went out, leaving the detective perplexed.

When he saw her then, there, he wanted to be angry at her but he couldn't be. He understood why she had admitted their affair, their perfidy, and it made him love her even more for it. Williamson was loitering just out of the door, cigar between his lips. He pulled her into his arms in two steps.

"You shouldn't have done that," he murmured against her jaw, "I was fine."

"Well I couldn't tolerate it," she said quietly, "I refuse to be the reason you are imprisoned and I don't even get to enjoy it."

A growl crackled in the back of his throat.

"I need to go home," he took her hand, "And we need to talk."

"Not your house," Williamson murmured, "Your aunts are crawling about, preparing for the funeral," he motioned to Morticia, "And I don't think they'd want to see Morticia. I brought you some spare clothes at any rate," he motioned to the hold-all, "Offices?"

Gomez nodded and watched as his friend smiled, however grudgingly, at Morticia.

 **-0-**

Morticia watched him pour the three glasses, but then stall at Williamson's voice.

"Not for me," the other man stood, "I better go."

"Somewhere to be?"

He raised a brow at Gomez, "For a man who's suddenly keeping secrets, you're intensely interested in those of others."

"Touche," Gomez held up his glass, "Be good."

"I can't promise," he grinned and set his hat on his head, "It's good to have you free, old chum, at least for the moment."

He turned to her, "Morticia, thank you for doing the sensible thing."

She nodded quietly and watched his retreating back.

"He's sleeping with Carmen," Gomez muttered as soon as he was out of the door.

"You know I won't tell you my friend's secrets," she leaned across the desk, took a sip from the tumbler, "But since you already know. Yes, you're right."

"He's as obvious as he's ever been," he took a sip, "Speaking of secrets…"

She tipped her head to the side, "You executed that like a lawyer."

He smiled, "Completely transparent?"

She smiled and nodded.

"You would be happy, wouldn't you, to just let it run its course?"

She watched him closely; despite his smile, he looked tired.

"Go on," he urged, "Answer me darling."

She laughed, "Yes, I would. I would just hope, one day, they walked in on us."

He shook his head, "Are you scared Morticia?"

She genuinely considered his question, and was unable to decide truly if it was fear or apprehension of change that made her so reluctant.

"You seem so convinced it would be simple to just tell them Gomez, don't you?"

"Yes, I absolutely do," he nodded and set his feet up on the desk, "And now is the right time. Everyone is distracted."

She watched him light his cigar and rest back, taking a deep draw. He looked intensely happy, as if nothing and no one could break his happiness.

"You look content," she whispered, settling back too.

"Morticia," he held up the cigar and looked at it lovingly, "I have this, I am free…and I am with you. What more could a man want? Apart from you as my wife?"

"Never happy," she smiled.

"Never fully sated, is more the case," he leaned forward and set his elbows on the table and his jaw against his hands. He looked wonderfully naïve like that.

"We can't tell them because…"

"Because?"

"Because I am afraid," she finally breathed, "I am afraid of what it will do to them. I am afraid it will expose all the terror, all the mistakes. It will make my father confront his antiquity, my mother her weakness, my sister her…selfishness. Me, my terror."

Aha! Finally," he said gently, "The lady admits fear."

"I could cope with Ophelia, I could even cope with my father…"she shook her head, "But my mother, she doesn't deserve this. And she'll be pitying and condescending and it will make me angry."

"Mortica, angry? That is something I have yet to see."

"Oh, I'm sure you will one day," she whispered, "Though it is rare."

He smiled and leaned forward to touch his fingers to hers.

"Morticia, I know you are not ready yet and I have no option but to accept that," he held her hand in his softly, his thumb tracing a pattern on her palm, "But I will not marry your sister. Before then, at least, there must be a decision."

She cocked an eye-brow, "Are you setting me a deadline?"

He grinned, "You need _some_ boundaries Tish."

She laughed softly, "Do I?"

"You do," he motioned a finger for her to come round to him.

She did as she was bid, sullying around the edge of the desk to settle in his lap.

"Last time we were around a desk we were rudely interrupted," she murmured, "And there has to be a way to remedy that."

"Oh," he lifted her lightly, so she was set atop the desk again, "Oh I don't know what you could possibly mean."

She smiled, "Perhaps I should show you."

He grinned and touched his hands to her face, "That seems the sensible thing to do."

* * *

 **Please review, if you have time. Thank you.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's note:** I want to say thank you, as always, for the reviews you left. I am glad you enjoyed it. Please let me know if you like this one. The story's winding up - I hope it's to your liking.

Please review if you can.

* * *

Gomez examined his black tie, neatened out the knot, then turned into the hall. The mourners were already pouring in and, despite the fact this had not been Balthazar's childhood home and had been the site of his death, his funeral was taking place here.

Gomez had felt it was the least he could do in the face of the fact he was a suspect in the murder. It was, to his mind, good form to host the funeral of the man he was supposed to have murdered.

"You look…innocent," his aunt Lilith said, then rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, you know I didn't do it," he answered, looking out into the bleak, black sea of people.

They were milling around the casket, desperate to see the enviable pall of his cousin.

"I know you didn't, but I don't know why the police let you go…yet," his aunt nodded softly, then dabbed her eyes with a lacy cloth, "But you did fight with him."

"I did. And new evidence arose, by the by."

"Over what did you fight with him?" His aunt didn't wait for her answer before she said, "Oh, there are the Nightshades. Go and see your intended, Gomez."

When he looked at Ophelia, across the sea of people, he felt anger thick and whole in his gut. She'd been willing to implicate him in a murder he did not commit, for no reason he could fathom. Yet he'd to marry her in a few weeks. Vomit, a product of sheer disgust, surged into his throat. Where once he could have withstood her, now he found her grotesque. And yet he'd done the unthinkable for her, or rather, for Morticia.

She waived excitedly and they swept towards him, Morticia not far behind. He was grateful then, for Itt calling everyone to attention just as the family neared his location at the end of the ballroom. They stalled and turned towards Itt, who invited them out into the graveyard to lay Baz at rest.

He gave Ophelia a silent nod and went towards the casket, as far away from her as possible.

When he reached the graveyard there were few seats left for the coffin-bearers, and it was a fate in itself that one of the few spare seats was beside Morticia. He quietly pushed his cousin Lem out of the way to get to the space first. When he sat down, she slid her hand gently into his.

He wanted to concentrate on the funeral, the eulogy, the lovely (and somewhat untrue) things the speakers were saying about his untimely deceased cousin. He simply couldn't, however, though he laughed when he thought he should and made mournful groans when it seemed appropriate. He found himself turning his head to stare, unabashedly, at the woman by his side. She was so truly overwhelming and he noticed, as if in slow motion, that he was not the only man staring at her. Itt was, between his squeaking sermons, and Lem was from across the crowd, and their old school chums were openly admiring her. There was a stinging jealousy too, coming from the pretty, envious young women who'd descended to mourn in their gaggle.

She leaned towards him, her mouth whispering: "You should listen, darling."

"I find myself distracted," he answered but turned his face towards the front.

It was then he noticed one of the jealous glares belonged to Ophelia, two rows in front.

He moved to withdraw his hand from Morticia, but she pulled him back and gave a minute shake of the head. She knew. The game was up now.

He felt her relief bleed into him, and he slumped further in the chair.

 **-0-**

She stayed back at the end of the crowd, watching the rest of the mourners trail back into the house.

"Morticia," her mother said gently, "Are you coming?"

She touched her own hand to her cheek, "I am very warm. I might cool down out here a while longer."

Her mother stalled then nodded, "I…maybe you should come with us?"

"No, honestly mama I am fine," she whispered, "I will be in as soon as I can be."

Her mother paused again and then began to trail back to the house.

She wandered then, through the multitudinous gravestones she'd only ever seen from afar. She was happy here, a serenity she had not known for a long time coming over her. Perhaps it was because her hand had been forced and now she would have to tell the truth. To know Ophelia knew was a relief, rather than a terror.

"Ha," his soft voice was behind her, then his hands were on her hips and were pulling her gently backwards.

She smiled, let him guide her over the rustling ground.

"This is hardly dignified," she murmured, turning to him as he stalled behind a particularly magnificent headstone.

He had dropped to his knees though and his face was entirely serious as he plunged his hand into his pocket and produced a dazzling ring.

"It was my mother's," he said solemnly, "I could not give it to your sister. It meant too much. I didn't know that it would ever see the light of day but then there was you and it was so fitting; my past beckoning to my future." He gulped into the stunned silence and continued, "You must marry me, even if you cannot be honest about it now. You must marry me. I must have your word."

She nodded and said nothing, instead allowing him to slide the glittering jewel onto her finger. It was a near perfect fit.

"We should tell them," she felt compelled to say, "We should tell them tomorrow."

He stood up then and pulled her to him, his mouth heavy and certain on hers. She felt safe, unthreatened in the circle of his embrace.

He pulled back after a while and produced a chain from his pocket, took the ring from her finger, and threaded the chain through it. She allowed him to turn her on the spot and lock it around her neck.

"This is insane," she muttered, examining the jewel, "Truly brainless."

"Isn't that what real love is? A plunge into insanity."

She felt her heart speed at his words.

"I think I could live forever with that."

He wrapped his fingers around her shoulders, pulled her against him so her back was flush with his chest.

"They wouldn't stop looking at you, you know that, don't you?"

She felt a feline grin crawl onto her own lips.

"I've never been ignorant of my appeal, if that's what you mean?"

"Certainly not ignorant," his lips bit tentatively at the skin of her neck.

A hiss gurgled into her throat and as his hands slid down from her shoulders to her hips she placed hers over his, followed his own journey down her body.

"It seems remarkably unfair," he murmured, "That you get to be the one who inflicts the pain all the time."

She turned in his arms as he stepped her backwards, so her body was pressed between a particularly sizeable monument and his body. He took both of her hands, though she feigned a fight, and pinned them above her head.

"I never said I wanted to be the one to inflict all the pain," she whispered, "You just made an assumption."

"So I am at fault," his free hand came to trace a light finger over the chain now around her neck, "I should atone in some way?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Have you ever made love in a graveyard?"

She felt a thrill of intense excitement as he let her hands go, "No."

"Do you want to?"

She guided his hand towards her skirt with her own, "What do you think my darling fiancé?"

His roar of excitement was answer enough.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Thank you for your reviews. I enjoy reading them, truly. There is one more chapter to go and I am so glad you have loved it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

* * *

He looked at her, reached out a hand to stall her trembling one. It was just after dawn, and her whole night had been spent in a panic at the prospect of their task the following morning. A confession, a divulgence, an enumeration, of their dark and permanent sins.

"It's going to be alright," he murmured, "Cara mia, you need to trust me."

"I do," she whispered, "But the pain of it…I don't know how to cope with that. I am…"

"Reluctant to acknowledge emotions at the best of times?"

She nodded and then turned towards him, "That is why I have fallen for you. You can be emotional enough for both of us."

He smiled and lifted her fingers to his lips as they pulled up at her familial home.

He watched as she looked out into it and a sort of emotionless came over her face.

"Are you ready?"

"As much as I shall ever be."

 **-0-**

"Morti-"

Her mother smiled at first but then faltered when she looked at their joined hands. She could see the bewilderment at the confusing equation; these were not hands that were supposed to be joined, these were not hips which were supposed to be pressed together or bodies that had become one. There was intense confusion for a moment, then the drop of a weight as a sickening realisation.

"Morticia."

Her mother began to shake her head and fell against the chair.

"Mama," she said gently, "Let us explain-"

"Explain away," Ophelia said lowly, "But I twigged a long time ago."

"Mrs Nightshade-"

"You don't speak," Morticia's father said soundly, "You remain silent Addams. Not only have you humiliated one of my daughters, but you've taken advantage of the other."

Morticia bristled at her father's assumption. He was an ostrich by nature, and it was at this she came to realise that his desire to see his daughters married in a way he thought right, to have it arranged, was the catalyst to the misery she was about to paint across all of them.

"No father, you are wrong," she squeezed his hand in hers, "You are choosing to blame Gomez-"

"Oh so it's Gomez now," Ophelia suddenly stood, "You treacherous little whore."

"Ophelia!"

Gomez stepped forward, "Don't call her that. Hold your tongue against insults."

Ophelia flew forward, her little hands springing out to claw at Morticia's neckline. She tugged at the chain so it emerged from its hiding place under the garment and snapped, the ring bouncing to the floor. She screamed triumphantly, crazily, and she scrambled to the floor for the piece and held it up as if it were some long lost treasure.

"I knew it! I knew it! I saw it at the funeral, after you disappeared again! Again. Rutting with him at any chance and he pays you in jewellery."

"Again?"

Her mother seemed to have recovered her voice but not her confidence, and she shook as she spoke.

"Oh they've been at it for ages!" Ophelia stepped back, her chest heaving, "After the engagement dinner she couldn't have been more of a slut and he, he was practically drooling. I knew it, I knew it all along."

Gomez's hand tightened on hers and he said flippantly, though there was an undertone of derision, "You're undermining the seriousness of it slightly."

"Oh I am not," Ophelia stood again, "This is the kind of thing my little sister has always done."

"Ophelia," her father suddenly said, "Ophelia that is unfair. You are being unfair. She's never hurt you, betrayed you. She's never been anything but decent to you. Morticia has always played-"

"Father," Morticia intervened gently, "I've always been happy for Ophelia to monopolise the time, the attention. It never upset me. But mother, father…" she stepped forward, "I am not at all proud of this. I didn't mean for this to happen. It just did."

"The classic line!"

Ophelia suddenly started screaming, her cries filling the entire room and rattling around the house. It would have been attractively unhinged if it didn't seem contrived.

Morticia stole a look at Gomez, who seemed to be largely unmoved by Ophelia's grumbling.

"Gomez," Morticia turned to him, "You should go."

"I am not leaving you," he motioned to her sister, "With that."

She leaned towards him, "I can manage."

He looked at both of her parents, whose eyes were daggers aimed solely at him. She felt suddenly guilty she had put him in this position and yet relieved too that he understood now where her reluctance must have come from.

"Tish-"

"Tish?" Ophelia's scream stopped abruptly, "Not just a fling then, not just a fling, not just a fling! You traitors!"

"Go Gomez," she said gently, "Please. I will see you tomorrow."

He nodded, bowed, and swept from the room.

There was an intense silence then, the kind that she hated because it was so full of criticism. She settled in the seat where she ordinarily sat, set back slightly from the heart of the parlour. All eyes were on her in the terrible silence, which was shattered intermittently by Ophelia's little gasps of misery.

"Oh Morticia," her mother wept suddenly, "Oh Morticia why? I don't know what to say."

She sighed and tried to answer as honestly as possible, "Mama, we are in love."

"How can you possibly-," her father ground his knuckles into tight fists, "I will kill him."

"Then you must kill me first," she whispered, "Because I am as much to blame as he."

"How could you do this to me, Morticia?"

Ophelia had lifted herself from her prostrate position on the floor to kneel. Her mascara had made stark lines across her cheeks, like twisted war paint.

"I didn't do it to you," she said solemnly, "I did it because I didn't know how to stop feeling how I felt. It certainly was not to hurt you, though I thoroughly acknowledge that it will, that it has."

"I'm surprised you have any feelings at all."

"Ophelia," she wanted to reach out and touch her sister, but she knew better than that, "You didn't want him. And you never have. You only started to want him when it became clear he didn't want you."

"At the beginning," her sister growled, "And then…"

"And then," she said calmly, "You fell in love with the idea of winning him over."

Ophelia suddenly snapped her lips back, so her teeth were bared.

"And you did not?"

"No," Morticia folded her hands in her lap, "And you know that, just by looking at what I've done."

"You've always been jealous of my toys!"

Morticia felt her lip lift in an ironic half-smile, "It's that thinking that's always made you unbearable. I couldn't care less if he was destitute. He makes me feel alive."

She turned to her parents.

"With your blessing, or without, I am marrying Gomez," she stood, "And if you don't want me here that is fine. I will go."

She couldn't suffer the misery anymore, so she turned and went from the room as Ophelia started another wail again.

Her chamber was quiet, a sanctuary made strange by the revelation of moments before. She sat calmly on the edge of the bed and felt the silk of the sheets, cool, under her hands. Here now, she could finally think.

And the thoughts were ones of quiet triumph, laced with regret at the suddenness of the change. There was no way back now, so there was acceptance too, of what she had to give away in order to have what she needed for her future.

She sat a while longer, until the sobbing died down. Then, as she had well expected, there was a knock at the door.

"How is she?"

Morticia realised she sounded desperate in that tiny moment of weakness. She tried to reign it back in, to release the feeling that she'd broken the sodality once there and that now those bonds were severed, they would always be weak if they were ever mended at all.

"Distraught," her mother answered, "Quite understandably."

Morticia examined her fingers, "I wasn't frightened of this, or of father, but of you."

Her mother let the door slide gently closed.

"You were always the easy one," her mother mused, settling on the dresser seat, "I used to forget you were even in the room. So quiet, so unassuming. No one could ever tell what you were thinking, how you were feeling."

Morticia nodded, "I know. It sounds terrible to say, but Ophelia never wanted him, she never wanted this, not really. And that's not an excuse, it's a fact. Even if she did, we've gone too far now."

Her mother opened her palm then, and the engagement ring which had been ripped from her in the parlour before was in the centre.

"Do you really love him?"

"Would I do this, to you, if I didn't? Would I do this to Ophelia if I didn't?"

Her mother nodded, then hung her head, "I don't know you enough to answer that."

"How sad," she said, and for the first time her voice quavered, "How sad that I've broken your heart and you can't even know me enough to see why."

"I want your happiness Morticia, as much I want your sister's," her mother continued, still staring at the jewel, "But you must see now, what you're doing, what your choice will mean. But tonight, I watched you with him…"

She nodded, "Mama, the very fact you think it's a choice shows how much you underestimate it. I love him, and you see that. There is no choice in this for me."

"What would you choose though," her mother asked patiently, "If it was a choice?"

"I would choose him," she answered, without a beat, "At the cost of all else. But it isn't a choice, you must see that."

Her mother considered for a second, then nodded and standing up, handed her the engagement ring. It lay in Morticia's open palm until her mother closed her fingers around it and went from the room.

She lay down, the piece still tucked tightly in her hand, and fell asleep only when she'd exhausted her mind to the brink of delirium.

She awoke hours later in the silence of the night. When she had been little, and sleep had proven elusive in her constantly whirring brain, she would wander the halls of their old, creaking home. It was not as grand as Gomez's (they were not as wealthy, and their estates not as vast) but it was entertainment enough for a child as curious and learned as she. So she re-tread her old paths, her feet bare against the wood, until she came to the small sitting room off of the kitchen. Normally she was above eavesdropping; little was interest enough to find her curiosity piqued, but the lowered voices of her mother and sister stopped her in her tracks.

Ophelia's voice had calmed, but there was still an edge to it.

"You want me to go for how long?"

"For as long as…" her mother paused, "For as long as you need. Six months Ophelia?"

Morticia retraced the words in her brain, not fully comprehending them at first.

"But _she_ was wrong," her sister hissed.

Morticia eyed the scene through a slit in the door, unseen by them, and watched as her mama handed her sister a thick envelope.

"I'll wire you more if you need it," her mother said, "It's better for you to be away during this. She was wrong, yes, but you know what _you_ did was wrong too."

The penny dropped for Morticia, and a shudder of ice tracked over her spine.

"For who's sake is it better to be away?"

Ophelia's face was one of defeat, one of a rejection so abundant that it made Morticia's insides crawl.

"For yours," their mother answered, but Morticia could hear the lie as she spoke.

"You know I murdered him," Ophelia suddenly said, "How did you know?"

Their mother nodded, though she did not answer the question.

"Why didn't he want me? And yet both of them wanted her…I got angry, you know what it's like when I get angry. I could tell he didn't want me from the start," Ophelia said, almost dreamily, "I begged papa, mama, I begged him not to set me up for this kind of fall. He didn't want me but I can't lose mama, I can't lose ever."

Morticia's mind was suddenly black with disillusion at the pettiness of the reason. She'd known Ophelia was a murderous little cat, but she hadn't expected it to be for such a shallow reason as desiring attraction. But in her gut there was pity too; she'd never though just of the impact the arranged marriage had on her sister. The idea that a husband could be chosen by anyone else other than his wife, where it had been barbaric before, now seemed an evil in itself to her.

"Ophelia, you must go," their mother said, ignoring her admission as it grew into a bilious elephant in the room, "Find yourself. Find your purpose."

"It won't be that when I drown myself," her sister said, "Will you always feel bad you picked her over me?"

"I don't know that it is that," mama eventually answered, "But I do know I'm picking your freedom, your sanity, over anything. I was as unhappy in my marriage as I could have been, we both were, and I want that for neither of you. You go, Morticia is happy. You go, you find happiness. You have to see why this is the only choice."

Morticia felt a sudden surge of pride in her mother then. The type that only came when you realised the inner conviction, and strength, which made someone who'd once seemed as weak as water into a protective lioness. She was a real mother then, not the wisp who'd wandered in a catatonic state through their childhood.

Ophelia sobbed openly and the sob was sore and wrenching, "Mama please, please don't make me go. I will fix it all. I will fix it with Morticia, I'll apologise, I'll admit. Mama, I know I…mama please. I know what you mean but mama I don't know what I'll do, out there, alone. I wanted to win. I hate losing. Mama please!"

Her mother turned her face away, and it would be that moment Morticia would regret forever. If she had had any compassion, any shred of empathy for her sister, she would have pushed in and told her mother they could mend it, and fix it.

But she didn't.

Instead she turned on her heels and went, back into the silence and peace of the darkness.

The next morning she awoke to a roar. It took her seconds to truly understand the noise, the feral cry of a wounded beast. Her feet beat on the wood as she took the stairs quickly, to find her father clutching a note to his chest.

"She's gone," he groaned, "Ophelia, she's left. A note, just a note."

The cold, almost blank stare of her mama as she looked upon the note reminded Morticia of the one person she never thought she'd see in her mother: herself.

It was an act of protection, an act of desperation, and it was something she'd admire forever. It was an act of unconditional love for both her daughters.

"I asked you not to set them up, both of them, for this," her mother said, into the silence of the morning, "I told you no good would come of it."

Her father leaned forward, let his head drop into his hands.

"She'll come back," her mother said, "I know she will. But she must have time, so we all must."

Neither of them looked at Morticia.

"Did you know?"

Her father suddenly asked her.

"No, of course not," Morticia lied.

Her mother's eyes shot to her then, and she knew as much as her mother did that they were both complicit in Ophelia's banishment.

"Papa," she knelt beside her father, "Papa, she will come back. She will go only until her heart heals."

"You did this," he muttered, though it lacked conviction.

"No papa," she murmured, "We all did. Ophelia included. Everyone has a portion of the blame here. There's no one entirely responsible, but there's no one innocent either."

There was a stark, contemplative silence which stretched into the morning and afternoon. It would never be the same again, there would always be an irreparable tear in the fabric of their world after that.

She was already shedding what she had been, and was growing into what she was to become. She felt it there as she lost a part of her past, stirring deep at the base of her spine.

A year later, without Ophelia, her father would die a silent death lamenting his un-mended relationships with his daughters.

And her mother would move across the city and into the Addams estate, where she would welcome her first grandchild into the world at her silent, contemplative daughter's side.

None of them knew that yet, of course, but the silence, the emptiness of a shadow and the suddenness of a space where once four was now three, was already making itself felt.

* * *

Thank you for reading. If you have just a moment, please review.


	18. Epilogue

**Author's note:** So this is the epilogue. I'm sorry it took so long - I've been working on it, and working more, and I still don't like it as much as I want to. I hope you do. I hope it isn't disappointing. I hope it lives up to your expectations.

Thank you so much for all the reviews, kind words, and the occasional (deserved) criticism. It's been a fun ride.

* * *

They watched the last of the guests leave, and on the horizon behind the graveyard the sun was rising. The last were intimate friends who'd stayed after the band had gone and clear up had begun. They'd put on an old record player, and drank the finest brandies and champagnes the cellar had to offer, and laughed into the morning light.

"Your father shared a brandy, and a cigar with me," he said quietly, already unknotting his bow tie, "This morning. I asked his forgiveness, for the sadness I had caused."

Her eyes trailed towards the centre of the swamp, on which they'd erected a quaintly rustic platform, and on which the ceremony had taken place. It had been the wedding she'd always wanted, but it had been the wedding he'd wanted too. The memories washed over her, the feeling that - despite the multitudinous guests - they were the only two beings there in that space and time, the most prolific of all the recollections.

"My poor father," she said genuinely, "He doesn't understand what he wanted was never going to work. I am surprised though, that he has been so forgiving."

"He _got_ what he wanted," Gomez said, reaching for the brandy bowl he'd set aside moments before.

The words were bitter with disillusionment.

"Don't think harshly of them, he was only doing what he knew," she chided softly, turning to the stairs, "We all were."

She began to slide her fingers down the line of buttons at her spine, popping each as she went.

He followed behind her.

"My parents had an arranged marriage, so did yours," he mused, "let's vow to never make our children do that."

"I think we may have ended that tradition today," she said softly.

"And has it made you miserable cara?"

"Enviably so," she stopped at the top of the stairs and wiggled the dress down her arms and hips and body, kicking the expensive vintage lace aside, "Oh yes completely."

"Poor Lurch won't know what's hit him," he said, watching in wonder, "Having a new mistress who likes to strip before she has reached the bedroom."

She turned to him, "Isn't mistress an apt title?"

"In more ways than one," he grinned, "Morticia, do I get to take you to bed as my wife?"

She nodded, "I suppose you do. But do bear in mind I am so much more than just your wife."

He grinned fiendishly as she began climbing the stairs again, her heels making her hips wiggle in an exaggeration he wasn't sure was due solely to her footwear.

"You're edible," he growled.

"A compliment in itself," she whispered, "Though one does question your vows where the proof is lacking."

He laughed indignantly, "I feasted all night last night. Well, until you resigned in exhaustion. It was you who begged me to stop."

"You have that effect on me," she continued into the darkness of the corridor, her undergarments sliding to the floor one after the other.

She pushed the door open, and stalled as she came face to face with their marital bed for the first time ever.

It was a cavernous, sturdy, imposing four poster bed which seemed almost monstrous in size. Just under the bed there were new, shining pewter shackles attached to the very floor with iron rungs. She smiled with delight.

"Oh, so this is where you disappeared to?"

There were thousands of candles around the room, covering every surface. A fresh box of cigars, champagne dripping dew on the French polish of the bedside.

"You deserve the world," he shed his jacket, "But until then, I'll give you every drop of my blood.

"That's promising."

"It's a vow."

She slid onto the sheets, "One more in a series today."

"I meant every word of them," he said softly.

"I did too."

Later they lay in the quiet of their master bedroom, the silence only punctured by their breathing and quiet conversation.

"What time do we leave tonight?"

He leaned over her, taking a bundle of papers from the bedside table.

"The flight departs at nine-thirty," he smiled, "Just in time for the storm."

She smiled, "So what does one do on one's first full day of marriage?"

"Sleep?"

"I suppose," she nodded, "Since we haven't done that all night."

She turned suddenly, her face thoughtful in a diversion from their current conversation.

"Will my sister ever be found responsible for Balthazar? Will they ever work it out, I mean?"

He shook his head, "I got rid of the knife. No evidence, no motive, no culprit. I fully disposed of it."

"You did?"

She was shocked and it was clear in her question.

He shrugged, "It isn't that I didn't want to tell you," he paused, "It got away from me really. I guessed it a few days later, found the knife, got rid of it. Actually Thing found it, amongst the letter openers in the bottom drawer of the lobby table. He has as good a nose for blood as a hound."

She smiled then, one of genuine thankfulness ate his boundless devotion to her. She pressed herself against his warm body, trying to convey her gratitude in contact alone.

"I don't need to ask why, do I?"

"Hiding evidence of your sister's crime to save you misery? A small, chivalric detail. At any rate, he had it coming to him for a long time. I think you know," he pushed her hair back from her face, cupped her cheek in his hand, "That's I'd sell my soul to the devil for you."

"You already have," she muttered darkly.

"Then what a lovely way to burn."


End file.
